The works of Benjamin Disraeli : Earl of Beaconsfield ; embracing novels, romances, plays, poems, biography, short stories and great speeches

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BENJAMIN DISRAELI

>EARL OF BEACONSFIELB

EMBRACING
NOVELS,ROMANCES,PIAYS,FOEm
BIOGRAFHY,SHORT STORIES
AND GREAT SPEECHES
WITH

A CRITiai INTRODUCTION BY

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LIBRARIAN TO THE

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AND

A BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE BY
ROBERT ARNOT,M.A.

raiNTCDrOR SUBSCRIBERS ONDTBY

MMLTEKDUNNEruWisher.

LONDON AND NEVYOKK^

Mm

FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING BY FRANCIS VAUX WILSON.

And placing his left arm around Sybil, he
defended her with his sword.

(See page 18s, Sybil.)

W A

SYBIL

OR

E Two Nations

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

EARL OF BEACONSFIELD

i^OLUME II.

M. WALTER DUNNE
NEW YORK AND LONDON

Entered at Stationers' Kali, London.

CONTENTS

SYBIL

{Coniinued)

Chapter XLIX. page
a meeting in the garden i

Chapter L.

DANGER 6

Chapter LI.

THE CLOCK OF ST. JOHNS \}

Chapter LII.

SYBIL IN PERIL 25

Chapter LIII.

A humble friend 33

Chapter LIV.

RICH and poor 39

Chapter LV.

the conspirators 48

Chapter LVI.

the rescue 59

Chapter LVII.

return of the delegate 67

VIU

CONTENTS

Chapter LVIII. PAGE
hatton's secret 74

Chapter LIX.

a discussion in downing street ... 8 1

Chapter LX.

STRENUOUS measures . 86

Chapter LXI.

exciting news 9 1

Chapter LXII.

the beautiful singer 99

Chapter LXIII.

visions of youth i06

Chapter LXIV.

march of the hell-cats ii 7

Chapter LXV.

END OF the TOMMY-SHOP ..... 1 12^

Chapter LXVI.

MICK radley s prophecy 1 3 5

Chapter LXVII.

the LIBERATOR OF THE PEOPLE . . . . I40

Chapter LXVIII.

a walk in mowbray park 1^0

Chapter LXIX.

MR. MOUNTCHESNEY TEMPORISES .... 160

Chapter LXX.

the fall of mowbray castle ... 1 67

Chapter LXXI.

the lady of mowbray 1 86

ILLUSTRATIONS

AND PLACING HIS LEFT ARM AROUND SYBIL, HE DE-
FENDED HER WITH HIS SWORD. (See page
185, Sybil) Frontispiece

(ix)

SYBIL

OR

THE TWO NATIONS

{CONTINUED^

CHAPTER XLIX.

A Meeting in the Garden.

GREMONT had recognised Sybil as
she entered the garden. He was
himself crossing the park to at-
tend a committee of the House
of Commons which had sat for the
first time that morning. The meet-
ing had been formal and brief, the committee soon
adjourned, arid Egremont repaired to the spot where
he was in the hope of still finding Sybil.

He approached her not without some restraint,
with reserve, and yet with tenderness. 'This is a
great, an unexpected pleasure indeed,' he said in a
faltering tone. She had looked up; the expression of
an agitation, not distressful, on her beautiful coun-
tenance could not be concealed. She smiled through
a gushing vision; and, with a flushed cheek, impelled

15 B. D.— I ( I )

2 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

perhaps by her native frankness, perhaps by some
softer and irresistible feeling of gratitude, respect, re-
gard, she said in a low voice, ' I was reading your
beautiful speech.'

'Indeed,' said Egremont much moved, 'that is an
honour, a pleasure, a reward, I never could have
even hoped to attain.'

' By all,' continued Sybil with more self-possession,
Mt must be read with pleasure, with advantage, but
by me, oh! with what deep interest.'

Mf anything that I said finds an echo in your
breast,' and here he hesitated: 'it will give me con-
fidence for the future,' he hurriedly added.

'Ah! why do not others feel like you?' said Sybil,
'all would not then be hopeless.'

'But you are not hopeless?' said Egremont, and
he seated himself on the bench, but at some distance
from her.

Sybil shook her head.

'But when we spoke last,' said Egremont, 'you
were full of confidence; in your cause, and in your
means.'

'It is not very long ago,' said Sybil, 'since we
thus spoke, and yet time in the interval has taught
me some bitter truths.'

'Truth is precious,' said Egremont, 'to us all; and
yet I fear I could not sufficiently appreciate the cause
that deprived you of your sanguine faith.'

' Alas ! ' said Sybil mournfully, ' I was but a dreamer
of dreams: I wake from my hallucination, as others
have done, I suppose^ before me. Like them, too, I
feel the glory of life has gone; but my content at
least,' and she bent her head meekly, 'has never
rested, I hope, too much on this world.'

SYBIL

3

'You are depressed, dear Sybil?'

'I am unhappy. I am anxious about my father.
I fear that he is surrounded by men unworthy of his
confidence. These scenes of violence alarm me.
Under any circumstances 1 should shrink from them,
but I am impressed with the conviction that they
can bring us nothing but disaster and disgrace.'

*I honour your father,' said Egremont; M know
no man whose character I esteem so truly noble;
such a just compound of intelligence and courage,
and gentle and generous impulse. I should deeply
grieve were he to compromise himself. But you have
influence over him, the greatest, as you have over
all. Counsel him to return to Mowbray.'

'Can I give counsel?' said Sybil, 'I who have
been wrong in all my judgments? I came up to this
city with him, to be his guide, his guardian. What
arrogance! What short-sighted pride! I thought the
people all felt as I feel; that I had nothing to do but
to sustain and animate him; to encourage him when
he flagged, to uphold him when he wavered. I
thought that moral power must govern the world,
and that moral power was embodied in an assembly
whose annals will be a series of petty intrigues, or,
what is worse, of violent machinations.'

* Exert every energy,' said Egremont, 'that your
father should leave London immediately; to-morrow,
to-night if possible. After this business at Birming-
ham, the government must act. I hear that they will
immediately increase the army and the police; and
that there is a circular from the Secretary of State to
the Lord Lieutenants of counties. But the govern-
ment will strike at the Convention. The members
who remain will be the victims. If your father re-

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

turn to Mowbray, and be quiet, he has a chance of
not being disturbed.'

* An ignoble end of many lofty hopes,' said Sybil.

'Let us retain our hopes,' said Egremont, 'and
cherish them.'

'1 have none,' she replied.

'And I am sanguine,' said Egremont.

*Ah! because you have made a beautiful speech.
But they will listen to you, they will cheer you, but
they will never follow you. The dove and the eagle
will not mate; the lion and the lamb will not lie
down together; and the conquerors will never rescue
the conquered.'

Egremont shook his head. 'You still will cherish
these phantoms, dear Sybil! and why.? They are not
visions of delight. Believe me, they are as vain as
they are distressing. The mind of England is the
mind ever of the rising race. Trust me, it is with the
people. And not the less so, because this feeling is one
of which even in a great degree it is unconscious. Those
opinions which you have been educated to dread and
mistrust, are opinions that are dying away. Predominant
opinions are generally the opinions of the generation
that is vanishing. Let an accident, which specula-
tion could not foresee, the balanced state at this mo-
ment of parliamentary parties, cease, and in a few
years, more or less, cease it must, and you will wit-
ness a development of the new mind of England,
which will make up by its rapid progress for its re-
tarded action. 1 live among these men; I know their
inmost souls; I watch their instincts and their im-
pulses; I know the principles which they have im-
bibed, and 1 know, however hindered by circumstances
for the moment, those principles must bear their fruit.

SYBIL

5

It will be a produce hostile to the oligarchical sys-
tem. The future principle of English politics will not
be a levelling principle; not a principle adverse to
privileges, but favourable to their extension. It will
seek to ensure equality, not by levelling the few, but
by elevating the many.'

Indulging for some little time in the mutual reflec-
tions which the tone of the conversation suggested,
Sybil at length rose, and, saying that she hoped by
this time her father might have returned, bade fare-
well to Egremont, but he, also rising, would for a
time accompany her. At the gate of the gardens,
however, she paused, and said with a soft sad
smile, 'Here we must part,' and extended to him
her hand.

'Heaven will guard over you!' said Egremont,
'for you are a celestial charge.'

CHAPTER L.

Danger.

S SYBIL approached her home, she
recognised her father in the court
before their house, accompanied
by several men, with whom he
seemed on the point of going forth.
She was so anxious to speak to
Gerard, that she did not hesitate at once to advance.
There was a stir as she entered the gate; the men
ceased tallcing, some stood aloof, all welcomed her
with silent respect. With one or two Sybil was not
entirely unacquainted; at least by name or person.
To them, as she passed, she bent her head; and then,
going up to her father, who was about to welcome
her, she said, in a tone of calmness, and with a
semblance of composure, ' If you are going out, dear
father, I should like to see you for one moment first.'

'A moment, friends,' said Gerard, * with your
leave;' and he accompanied his daughter into the
house. He would have stopped in the hall, but she
walked on to their room, and Gerard, though pressed
for time, was compelled to follow her. When they
had entered their chamber, Sybil closed the door with
care, and then, Gerard sitting, or rather leaning care-
er)

SYBIL

7

lessly, on the edge of the table, she said, ' We are
once more together, dear father; we will never again
be separated.'

Gerard sprang quickly on his legs, his eye kindled,
his cheek flushed. ' Something has happened to you,
Sybil!'

'No,' she said, shaking her head mournfully, 'not
that; but something may happen to you.'

'How so, my child?' said her father, relapsing
into his customary good-tempered placidity, and speak-
ing in an easy, measured, almost drawling tone that
was habitual to him.

'You are in danger,' said Sybil, 'great and imme-
diate. No matter at this moment how I am per-
suaded of this: I wish no mysteries, but there is no
time for details. The government will strike at the
Convention; they are resolved. This outbreak at
Birmingham has brought affairs to a crisis. They
have already arrested the leaders there; they will seize
those who remain here in avowed correspondence
with them.'

' If they arrest all who are in correspondence with
the Convention,' said Gerard, ' they will have enough
to do.'

'Yes: but you take a leading part,' said Sybil;
'you are the individual they would select.'

'Would you have me hide myself,' said Gerard,
'just because something is going on besides talk?'

'Besides talk!' exclaimed Sybil. 'O! my father,
what thoughts are these ? It may be that words are
vain to save us; but feeble deeds are vainer far than
words.'

'I do not see that the deeds, though I have noth-
ing to do with them, are so feeble,' said Gerard;

8 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'their boasted police are beaten, and by the isolated
movement of an unorganised mass. What if the out-
break had not been a solitary one ? What if the peo-
ple had been disciplined?'

'What if everything were changed, if everything
were contrary to what it is ? ' said Sybil. ' The peo-
ple are not disciplined; their action will not be, can-
not be, coherent and uniform; these are riots in which
you are involved, not revolutions; and you will be a
victim, and not a sacrifice.'

Gerard looked thoughtful, but not anxious: after a
momentary pause, he said, * We must not be scared
at a few arrests, Sybil. These are hap-hazard pranks
of a government that wants to terrify, but is itself
frightened. I have not counselled, none of us have
counselled, this stir at Birmingham. It is a casualty.
We were none of us prepared for it. But great things
spring from casualties. I say the police were beaten,
and the troops alarmed; and I say this was done
without organisation, and in a single spot. I am as
much against feeble deeds as you can be, Sybil; and
to prove this to you, our conversation at the moment
you arrived was to take care for the future that there
shall be none. Neither vain words, nor feeble deeds,
for the future,* added Gerard, and he moved to de-
part.

Sybil approached him with gentleness; she took
his hand as if to bid him farewell; she retained it for
a moment, and looked him steadfastly in the face,
with a glance at the same time serious and soft.
Then, throwing her arms round his neck, and leaning
her cheek upon his breast, she murmured, 'O! my
father, your child is most unhappy.'

'Sybil,' exclaimed Gerard, in a tone of tender re-

SYBIL

9

proach, 'this is womanish weakness; I love but must
not share it.'

* It may be womanish,* said Sybil, 'but it is wise:
for what should make us unhappy if not the sense of
impending, yet unknown, danger?'

'And why danger?' said Gerard.

*Why mystery?' said Sybil. 'Why are you ever
preoccupied and involved in dark thoughts, my father?
It is not the pressure of business, as you will perhaps
tell me, that occasions this change in a disposition so
frank and even careless. The pressure of affairs is
not nearly so great, cannot be nearly so great, as in
the early period of your assembling, when the eyes
of the whole country were on you, and you were in
communication with all parts of it. How often have
you told me that there was no degree of business
which you found irksome ? Now you are all dispersed
and scattered: no discussions, no committees, Httle
correspondence; and you yourself are ever brooding,
and ever in conclave too, with persons who, I know,
for Stephen has told me so, are the preachers of
violence; violence perhaps that some of them may
preach, yet will not practise: both bad; traitors it
may be, or, at the best, hare-brained men.'

'Stephen is prejudiced,* said Gerard. 'He is a
visionary, indulging in impossible dreams, and if pos-
sible, little desirable. He knows nothing of the feel-
ing of the country or the character of his countrymen.
Englishmen want none of his joint-stock felicity; they
want their rights, rights consistent with the rights of
other classes, but without which the rights of other
classes cannot and ought not to be secure.'

/Stephen is at least your friend, my father; and
once you honoured him.'

lo BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'And do so now, and love him very dearly. I
honour him for his great abilities and knowledge.
Stephen is a scholar; I have no pretensions that way;
but I can feel the pulse of a people, and can compre-
hend the signs of the times, Sybil. Stephen was all
very well talking in our cottage and garden at Mow-
bray, when we had nothing to do; but now we
must act, or others will act for us. Stephen is not a
practical man; he is crotchety, Sybil, and that's just it.'

'But violence and action,' said Sybil, 'are they
identical, my father?'

'I did not speak of violence.'

'No; but you looked it. I know the language of
your countenance, even to the quiver of your lip.
Action, as you and Stephen once taught me, and I
think wisely, was to prove to our rulers by an agita-
tion, orderly and intellectual, that we were sensible
of our degradation; and that it was neither Christian-
like nor prudent, neither good nor wise, to let us re-
main so. That you did, and you did it well; the
respect of the world, even of those who differed from
you in interest or opinion, was not withheld from
you, and can be withheld from none who exercise
the moral power that springs from great talents and
a good cause. You have let this great moral power,
this pearl of price,' — said Sybil, with emotion; 'we
cannot conceal it from ourselves, my father — you have
let it escape from your hands.'

Gerard looked at her as she spoke, with an ear-
nestness unusual with him. As she ceased, he cast
his eyes down, and seemed for a moment deep in
thought; then, looking up, he said, 'The season for
words is past. I must begone, dear Sybil.' And he
moved towards the door.

SYBIL

II

*You shall not leave me,' said Sybil, springing for-
ward, and seizing his arm.

'What would you, what would you?' said Gerard,
distressed.

'That we should quit this city to-night.'
'What, quit my post?'

* Why yours ? Have not your colleagues dispersed ?
Is not your assembly formally adjourned to another
town ? Is it not known that the great majority of
the delegates have returned to their homes? And
why not you to yours?'

M have no home,' said Gerard, almost in a voice
of harshness. '1 came here to do the business that
was wanting, and, by the blessing of God, I will do it.
I am no changeling, nor can I refine or split straws,
like your philosophers and Morleys; but if the people
will struggle, 1 will struggle with them; and die, if
need be, in the front. Nor will 1 be deterred from my
purpose by the tears of a girl,' and he released him-
self from the hand of his daughter with abruptness.

Sybil looked up to heaven with streaming eyes,
and clasped her hands in unutterable woe. Gerard
moved again towards the door, but before he reached
it his step faltered, and he turned again and looked at
his daughter with tenderness and anxiety. She re-
mained in the same position, save that her arms that
had fallen were crossed before her, and her down-
ward glance seemed fixed in deep abstraction. Her
father approached her unnoticed; he took her hand;
she started, and looking round with a cold and dis-
tressed expression, said, in a smothered tone, 'I
thought you had gone.'

'Not in anger, my sweet child,' and Gerard pressed
her to his heart.

12 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'But you go,' murmured Sybil.

'These men await me,* said Gerard. 'Our council
is of importance. We must take some immediate
steps for the aid of our brethren in distress at Bir-
mingham, and to discountenance similar scenes of
outbreak to this affair: but, the moment this is over,
I will come back to you; and, for the rest, it shall
be as you desire; to-morrow we will return to Mow-
bray.'

Sybil returned her father's embrace with a warmth
which expressed her sense of his kindness and her
own soothed feelings, but she said nothing; and bid-
ding her now to be of good cheer, Gerard quitted the
apartment.

CHAPTER LI.

The Clock of St. John's.

HE clock of St. John's church struck
three, and the clock of St. John's
church struck four; and the fifth
hour sounded from St. John's
church; and the clock of St. John's
was sounding six. And Gerard had
not yet returned.

The time for a while after his departure had been
comparatively pleasant, and even agreeable. Easier in
her mind and for a time busied with the preparations
for their journey, Sybil sat by the open window more
serene and cheerful than for a long period had been
her wont. Sometimes she turned for a moment from
her volume and fell into a reverie of the morrow and
of Mowbray. Viewed through the magic haze of time
and distance, the scene of her youth assumed a char-
acter of tenderness and even of peaceful bliss. She
sighed for the days of their cottage and their garden,
when the discontent of her father was only theoret-
ical, and their political conclaves were limited to a
discussion between him and Morley on the rights of
the people or the principals of society. The bright
waters of the Mowe and its wooded hills; her matin

(13)

14 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

walks to the convent to visit Ursula Trafford, a pil-
grimage of piety and charity and love; the faithful
Harold, so devoted and so intelligent; even the crowded
haunts of labour and suffering among which she
glided like an angel, blessing and blessed; they rose
before her, those touching images of the past, and her
eyes were suffused with tears, of tenderness, not of
gloom.

And blended with them the thought of one who
had been for a season the kind and gentle companion
of her girlhood, that Mr. Franklin whom she had never
quite forgotten, and who, alas! was not Mr. Franklin
after all. Ah! that was a wonderful history; a some-
what thrilling chapter in the memory of one so inno-
cent and so young! His voice even now lingered in
her ear. She recalled without an effort those tones of
the morning, tones of tenderness, and yet of wisdom
and considerate thought, that had sounded only for
her welfare. Never had Egremont appeared to her in
a light so subduing. He was what man should be to
woman ever: gentle, and yet a guide. A thousand
images dazzhng and wild rose in her mind; a thou-
sand thoughts, beautiful and quivering as the twilight,
clustered round her heart; for a moment she indulged
in impossible dreams, and seemed to have entered a
newly discovered world. The horizon of her experi-
ence expanded like the glittering heaven of a fairy
tale. Her eye was fixed in lustrous contemplation,
the flush on her cheek was a messenger from her
heart, the movement of her mouth would have in an
instant become a smile, when the clock of St. John's
struck four, and Sybil started from her reverie.

The clock of St. John's struck four, and Sybil be-
came anxious; the clock of St. John's struck five, and

SYBIL

Sybil became disquieted; restless and perturbed, she
was walking up and down the chamber, her books
long since thrown aside, when the clock of St. John's
struck six.

She clasped her hands and looked up to heaven.
There was a knock at the street door; she herself
sprang out to open it. It was not Gerard. It was
Morley.

*Ah! Stephen,' said Sybil, with a countenance of
undisguised disappointment, M thought it was my
father.'

*1 should have been glad to have found him here,'
said Morley. * However, with your permission I will
enter.'

'And he will soon arrive,' said Sybil; 'I am sure
he will soon arrive. I have been expecting him every
minute — '

*For hours,' added Morley, finishing her sentence,
as they entered the room. 'The business that he is
on,' he continued, throwing himself into a chair with
a recklessness very unlike his usual composure and
even precision, 'the business that he is on is engross-
ing.'

'Thank Heaven,' said Sybil, 'we leave this place
to-morrow.'

'Hah!' said Morley, starting, 'who told you so?'

'My father has so settled it; has indeed promised
me that we shall depart.'

'And you were anxious to do so.'

'Most anxious; my mind is prophetic only of mis-
chief to him if we remain.'

'Mine too. Otherwise I should not have come up
to-day.'

'You have seen him, I hope?' said Sybil.

i6 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'I have; I have been hours with him.'
*I am glad. At this conference which he talked
of?'

'Yes; at this headstrong council; and I have seen
him since; alone. Whatever hap to him, my con-
science is assoiled.'

'You terrify me, Stephen,' said Sybil, rising from
her seat. ' What can happen to him ? What would
he do, what would you resist ? Tell me, tell me, dear
friend.'

'Oh! yes,' said Morley, pale, and with a slight
bitter smile. 'Oh! yes; dear friend!'

'I said dear friend, for so I deemed you,' said
Sybil; 'and so we have ever found you. Why do
you stare at me so strangely, Stephen?'

'So you deem me, and so you have ever found
me,' said Morley, in a slow and measured tone, re-
peating her words. ' Well, what more would you
have? What more should any of us want?' he asked
abruptly.

' I want no more,' said Sybil, innocently.

'I warrant me, you do not. Well, well; nothing
matters. And so,' he added in his ordinary tone, 'you
are waiting for your father?'

'Whom you have not long since seen,' said Sybil,
'and whom you expected to find here?'

'No!' said Morley, shaking his head with the same
bitter smile; 'no, no, I didn't. I came to find you.'

'You have something to tell me,' said Sybil,
earnestly. * Something has happened to my father.
Do not break it to me; tell me at once,' and she
advanced and laid her hand upon his arm.

Morley trembled; and then in a hurried and agi-
tated voice, said, 'No, no, no! nothing has happened.

SYBIL

17

Much may happen, but nothing has happened. And
we may prevent it.'

'Tell me what may happen; tell me what to do.'

'Your father,' said Morley, slowly rising from his
seat and pacing the room, and speaking in a low
calm voice, 'your father, and my friend, is in this
position, Sybil: he is conspiring against the State.'

'Yes, yes,' said Sybil, very pale, speaking almost
in a whisper, and with her gaze fixed intently on her
companion. 'Tell me all.'

' 1 will. He is conspiring, I say, against the State.
To-night they meet in secret, to give the last finish
to their plans; and to-night they will be arrested.'

'O God!' said Sybil, clasping her hands. 'He told
me truth.'

' Who told you tputh ? ' said Morley, springing to
her side, in a hoarse voice, and with an eye of fire.

'A friend,' said Sybil, dropping her arms and
bending her head in woe; 'a kind, good friend. I
met him but this morn, and he warned me of all
this.'

'Hah, hah!' said Morley, with a sort of stifled
laugh; 'Hah, hah! he told you, did he? the kind,
good friend whom you met this morning ? Did I not
warn you, Sybil, of the traitor ? Did I not tell you
to beware of taking this false aristocrat to your hearth;
to worm out all the secrets of that home that he
once polluted by his espionage, and now would deso-
late by his treason?'

'Of whom and what do you speak?' said Sybil,
throwing herself into a chair.

'I speak of that base spy, Egremont.'

'You slander an honourable man,' said Sybil, with
dignity. ' Mr. Egremont has never entered this house

i8 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

since you met him here for the first time; save once.'

* He needed no entrance to this house to worm
out its secrets,' said Morley, mahciously. 'That could
be more adroitly done by one who had assignations
at command with the most charming of its inmates.'

'Unmannerly churl!' exclaimed Sybil, starting in
her chair, her eye flashing lightning, her distended
nostril quivering with scorn.

'Oh! yes, I am a churl,' said Morley; 'I know I
am a churl. Were I a noble, the daughter of the
people would perhaps condescend to treat me with
less contempt.'

' The daughter of the people loves truth and manly
bearing, Stephen Morley; and will treat with con-
tempt all those who slander women, whether they be
nobles or serfs.'

'And where is the slanderer?'

'Ask him who told you I held assignations with
Mr. Egremont, or with any one.'

' Mine eyes, mine own eyes, were my informant,'
said Morley. ' This morn, the very morn I arrived in
London, I learnt how your matins were now spent.
Yes!' he added, in a tone of mournful anguish, 'I
passed the gate of the gardens; I witnessed your
adieus.'

'We met by hazard,' said Sybil in a calm tone,
and with an expression that denoted she was think-
ing of other things, 'and in all probability we shall
never meet again. Talk not of these trifles, Stephen;
my father, how can we save him?'

'Are they trifles?' said Morley, slowly and ear-
nestly, walking to her side, and looking her intently in
the face. 'Are they indeed trifles, Sybil? Oh! make
me credit that, and then — ! he paused.

SYBIL

19

Sybil returned his gaze: the deep lustre of her dark
orb rested on his peering vision; his eye fled from the
unequal contest; his heart throbbed, his limbs trem-
bled; he fell upon his knee.

'Pardon me, pardon me,' he said, and he took her
hand. * Pardon the most miserable and the most de-
voted of men! '

'What need of pardon, dear Stephen?' said Sybil
in a soothing tone. * In the agitated hour wild words
escape. If I have used them, I regret; if you, I
have forgotten.'

The clock of St. John's told that the sixth hour
was more than half-past.

'Ah!' said Sybil, withdrawing her hand, 'you told
me how precious was time. What can we do ? '

Morley rose from his kneeling position, and again
paced the chamber, lost for some moments in deep
meditation. Suddenly he seized her arm, and said, ' I
can endure no longer the anguish of my life: I love
you, and if you will not be mine, 1 care for no one's
fate.'

'I am not born for love,' said Sybil, frightened,
yet endeavouring to conceal her alarm.

'We are all born for love,' said Morley. 'It is the
principle of existence and its only end. And love of
you, Sybil,' he continued, in a tone of impassioned pa-
thos, 'has been to me for years the hoarded treasure
of my life. For this I have haunted your hearth and
hovered round your home; for this I have served your
father like a slave, and embarked in a cause with
which I have little sympathy, and which can meet
with no success. It is your image that has stimu-
lated my ambition, developed my powers, sustained
me in the hour of humiliation, and secured me that

20

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

material prosperity which I can now command. Oh!
deign to share it; share it with the impassioned heart
and the devoted life that now bow before you; and
do not shrink from them because they are the feelings
and the fortunes of the people.'

'You astound, you overwhelm me,' said Sybil, ag-
itated. 'You came for another purpose, we were
speaking of other feelings; it is the hour of exigency
you choose for these strange, these startling words.'

'I also have my hour of exigency,' said Morley,
'and its minutes are now numbering. Upon it all
depends.'

'Another time,* said Sybil, in a low and depreca-
tory voice; 'speak of these things another time!'

'The caverns of my mind are open,' said Morley,
'and they will not close.'

'Stephen,' said Sybil, 'dear Stephen, I am grate-
ful for your kind feelings; but indeed this is not the
time for such passages: cease, my friend!'

'1 came to know my fate,' said Morley, doggedly.

'It is a sacrilege of sentiment,' said Sybil, unable
any longer to restrain her emotion, 'to obtrude its
expression on a daughter at such a moment.'

'You would not deem it so if you loved, or if
you could love, me, Sybil,' said Morley, mournfully.
'Why, it is a moment of deep feeling, and suited
for the expression of deep feeling. You would not
have answered thus if he who had been kneeling
here had been named Egremont.'

'He would not have adopted a course,' said Sybil,
unable any longer to restrain her displeasure, ' so self-
ish, so indecent.'

'Ah! she loves him!' exclaimed Morley, springing
on his legs, and with a demoniac laugh.

SYBIL

21

There was a pause. Under ordinary circumstances
Sybil would have left the room and terminated a dis-
tressing interview, but in the present instance that
was impossible; for on the continuance of that inter-
view any hope of assisting her father depended.
Morley had thrown himself into a chair opposite her,
leaning back in silence with his face covered; Sybil
was disincHned to revive the conversation about her
father, because she had already perceived that Morley
was only too much aware of the command which
the subject gave him over her feelings and even con-
duct. Yet time, time now full of terror, time was
stealing on. It was evident that iMorley would not
break the silence. At length, unable any longer to
repress her tortured heart, Sybil said, ' Stephen, be
generous; speak to me of your friend.'

*I have Tio friend,' said Morley, without taking his
hands from his face.

*The saints in heaven have mercy on me,' said
Sybil, *for I am very wretched.'

*No, no, no!' said Morley, rising rapidly from his
seat, and again kneeling at her side, 'not wretched;
not that tone of anguish! What can I do? what
say ? Sybil, dearest Sybil. I love you so much, so
fervently, so devotedly; none can love you as I do;
say not you are wretched!'

'Alas! alas!' said Sybil.

'What shall 1 do? what say?* said Morley.

'You know what I would have you say,* said
Sybil. 'Speak of one who is my father, if no longer
your friend: you know what I would have you do:
save him; save him from death and me from de-
spair.'

'1 am ready,' said Morley, 'I came for that.

22 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Listen. There is a meeting to-night at half-past eight
o'clock; they meet to arrange a general rising in the
country: their intention is known to the government;
they will be arrested. Now it is in my power,
which it was not when I saw your father this morn-
ing, to convince him of the truth of this, and were 1
to see him before eight o'clock, which I could easily
do, I could prevent his attendance, certainly prevent
his attendance, and he would be saved; for the gov-
ernment depend much upon the papers, some procla-
mations, and things of that kind, which will be
signed this evening, for their proofs. Well, I am
ready to save Gerard, my friend, for so I'll call him,
as you wish it; one I have served before and long;
one whom I came up from Mowbray this day to
serve and save; I am ready to do that which you
require; you yourself admit it is no light deed; and
coming from one you have known so long, and, as
you confess, so much regarded, should be doubly
cherished; I am ready to do this great service; to
save the father from death and the daughter from de-
spair, if she would but only say to me, "\ have but
one reward, and it is yours.'"

'I have read of something of this sort,' said Sybil,
speaking in a murmuring tone, and looking round
her with a wild expression, ' this bargaining of blood,
and shall I call it love? But that was ever between
the oppressors and the. oppressed. This is the first
time that a child of the people has been so assailed
by one of her own class, and who exercises his
power from the confidence which the sympathy of
their sorrows alone caused. It is bitter; bitter for
me and mine; but for you, pollution.'

*Am I answered?' said Morley.

SYBIL

23

*Yes/ said Sybil, Mn the name of the holy Vir-
gin.'

'Good night, then,' said Morley, and he approached
the door. His hand was on it. The voice of Sybil
made him turn his head.

'Where do they meet to-night?' she enquired in
a smothered tone.

* 1 am bound to secrecy,' said Morley.

'There is no softness in your spirit,' said Sybil.

' I am met with none.'

'We have ever been your friends.'

'A blossom that has brought no fruit.'

' This hour will be remembered at the judgment-
seat,' said Sybil.

'The holy Virgin will perhaps interpose for me,'
said Morley with a sneer.

'We have merited this,' said Sybil, 'who have
taken an infidel to our hearts.'

'If he had only been a heretic, like Egremont! '
said Morley.

Sybil burst into tears. Morley sprang to her.
'Swear by the holy Virgin, swear by all the saints,
swear by your hope of heaven and by your own
sweet name; without equivocation, without reserve,
with fulness and with truth, that you will never give
your heart or hand to Egremont, and I will save
your father.'

As in a low voice, but with a terrible earnestness,
Morley dictated this oath, Sybil, already pale, became
white as the marble saint of some sacred niche. Her
large dark eyes seemed fixed; a fleet expression of
agony flitted over her beautiful brow like a cloud;
and she said, 'I swear that I will never give my
hand to '

24 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'And 3^our heart, -your heart,' said Morley eagerly.
' Omit not that. Swear by the holy oaths again you
do not love him. She falters! Ah! she blushes!'
For a burning brightness now suffused the cheek of
Sybil. 'She loves him,' exclaimed Morley, wildly,
and he rushed frantically from the room.

CHAPTER LII.

Sybil in Peril.

GITATED and overcome by these
unexpected and passionate appeals,
and these outrageous ebullitions
acting on her at a time when
she herself was labouring under
no ordinary excitement, and was dis-
tracted with disturbing thoughts, the mind of Sybil
seemed for a moment to desert her; neither by sound
nor gesture did she signify her sense of Morley's last
words and departure: and it was not until the loud
closing of the street door, echoing through the long
passage, recalled her to herself, that she was aware
how much was at stake in that incident. She darted
out of the room to recall him; to make one more ef-
fort for her father; but in vain. By the side of their
house was an intricate passage leading into a labyrinth
of small streets. Through this Morley had disap-
peared; and his name, more than once sounded in a
voice of anguish in that silent and most obsolete
Smith Square, received no echo.

Darkness and terror came over the spirit of Sybil;
a sense of confounding and confusing woe, with
which it was in vain to cope. The conviction of her
helplessness prostrated her. She sat her down upon

(25)

26 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

the steps before the door of that dreary house, within
the raihngs of that gloomy court, and buried her face
in her hands; a wild vision of the past and the
future, without thought or feehng, coherence or con-
sequence; sunset gleams of vanished bliss, and stormy
gusts of impending doom.

The clock of St. John's struck seven.

It was the only thing that spoke in that still and
dreary square; it was the only voice that ever seemed
to sound there; but it was a voice from heaven, it
was the voice of St. John.

Sybil looked up; she looked up at the holy build-
ing. Sybil listened; she listened to the holy sounds.
St. John told her that the danger of her father was so
much more advanced. Oh! why are there saints in
heaven if they cannot aid the saintly ? The oath that
Morley would have enforced came whispering in the
ear of Sybil, 'Swear by the holy Virgin, and by all
the saints.'

And shall she not pray to the holy Virgin, and all
the saints? Sybil prayed; she prayed to the holy
Virgin, and all the saints; and especially to the be-
loved St. John, most favoured among Hebrew men,
who reposed on the breast of the Divine Friend.

Brightness and courage returned to the spirit of
Sybil; a sense of animating and exalting faith that
could move mountains, and combat without fear a
thousand perils. The conviction of celestial aid in-
spired her. She rose from her sad resting-place, and
re-entered the house; only, however, to provide her-
self with her walking attire, and then, alone and
without a guide, the shades of evening already de-
scending, this child of innocence and divine thoughts,
born in a cottage and bred in a cloister, went forth,

SYBIL

27

on a great enterprise of duty and devotion, into the
busiest and the wildest haunts of the greatest of
modern cities.

Sybil knew well her way to Palace Yard. This
point was soon reached; she desired the cabman to
drive her to a street in the Strand, in which was a
coffee-house, where, during the last weeks of their
stay in London, the scanty remnants of the National
Convention had held their sittings. It was by a mere
accident that Sybil had learnt this circumstance, for,
when she had attended the meetings of the Conven-
tion in order to hear her father's speeches, it was in
the prime of their gathering, and when their numbers
were great, and when they met in audacious rivalry
opposite to that St. Stephen's which they wished to
supersede. This accidental recollection, however, was
her only clue in the urgent adventure on which she
had embarked.

She cast an anxious glance at the clock of St.
Martin's, as she passed that church; the hand was
approaching the half hour of seven. She urged on the
driver; they were in the Strand: there was an agita-
ting stoppage; she was about to descend when the
obstacle was removed; and in a few minutes they
turned down the street which she sought.

'What number, ma'am?* asked the cabman.

"Tis a coffee-house; I know not the number, nor
the name of him who keeps it. 'Tis a coffee-house.
Can you see one? Look, look, I pray you! 1 am
much pressed.'

'Here's a coffee-house, ma'am,' said the man in a
hoarse voice.

*How good you are! Yes; I will get out. You
will wait for me, I am sure.'

28 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'All right,' said the cabman, as Sybil entered the
illumined door. 'Poor young thmg! she's wery
anxious about summut.'

Sybil at once stepped into a rather capacious room,
fitted up in the old-fashioned style of coffee-rooms,
with mahogany boxes, in several of which were men
drinking coffee, and reading newspapers by a painful
glare of gas. There was a waiter in the middle of
the room, who was throwing some fresh sand upon
the floor, but who stared immensely when, looking
up, he beheld Sybil.

'Now, ma'am, if you please,' said the waiter en-
quiringly.

'Is Mr. Gerard here?' said Sybil.

' No, ma'am ; Mr. Gerard has not been here to-day,
nor yesterday neither;' and he went on throwing the
sand.

'I should like to see the master of the house,'
said Sybil very humbly.

'Should you, ma'am?' said the waiter, but he
gave no indication of assisting her in the fulfilment of
her wish.

Sybil repeated that wish, and this time the waiter
said nothing.

This vulgar and insolent neglect, to which she
was so little accustomed, depressed her spirit. She
could have encountered tyranny and oppression, and
she would have tried to struggle with them; but this
insolence of the insignificant made her feel her insig-
nificance; and the absorption all this time of the
guests in their newspapers aggravated her nervous
sense of her utter helplessness. All her feminine re-
serve and modesty came over her; alone in this room
among men, she felt overpowered, and she was about

SYBIL

29

to make a precipitate retreat when the clock of the
coffee-room sounded the half hour. In a paroxysra
of nervous excitement, she exclaimed, ' Is there not
one among you who will assist me?'

All the newspaper readers put down their journals,
and stared.

'Hoity, toity!' said the waiter, and he left off
throwing the sand.

'Well, what's the matter now?' said one of the
guests.

* I wish to see the master of the house on busi-
ness of urgency,' said Sybil, *to himself, and to one
of his friends, and his servant here will not even re-
ply to my enquiries.'

'I say, Saul, why don't you answer the young
lady?' said another guest.

*So I did,' said Saul. 'Did you call for coffee,
ma'am ?'

'Here's Mr. Tanner, if you want him, my dear,'
said the first guest, as a lean black-looking individual,
with grizzled hair and a red nose, entered the coffee-
room from the interior. ' Tanner, here's a lady wants
you.'

'And a very pretty girl too,' whispered one to
another.

'What's your pleasure?' said Mr. Tanner abruptly.

'I wish to speak to you alone,' said Sybil; and
advancing towards him, she said in a low voice, ' 'Tis
about Walter Gerard 1 would speak to you.'

'Well, you can step in here if you like,' said Tan-
ner, discourteously; 'there's only my wife;' and he
led the way to the inner room, a small close parlour,
adorned with portraits of Tom Paine, Cobbett, Thistle-
wood, and General Jackson; with a fire, though it

30 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

was a hot July, and a very fat woman affording still
more heat, and who was drinking shrub and water,
and reading the police reports. She stared rudely at
Sybil as she entered, following Tanner, who himself,
when the door was closed, said, * Well, now what
have you got to say?'

'I wish to see Walter Gerard.*

'Do you indeed!'

'And,' continued Sybil, notwithstanding his sneer-
ing remark, ' I come here that you may tell me where
I may find him.'

'I believe he lives somewhere in Westminster,'
said Tanner, 'that's all I know about him; and if this
be all you had to say, it might have been said in the
coffee-room.'

'It is not all that I have to say,' said Sybil; 'and
I beseech you, sir, listen to me. I know where Ger-
ard lives; 1 am his daughter, and the same roof covers
our heads. But I wish to know where they meet to-
night: you understand me; ' and she looked at his wife,
who had resumed her police reports; "tis urgent.'

'I don't know nothing about Gerard,' said Tanner,
' except that he comes here and goes away again.'

'The matter on which 1 would see him,' said
Sybil, 'is as urgent as the imagination can conceive,
and it concerns you as well as himself; but, if you
know not where I can find him,' and she moved, as
if about to retire, "tis of no use.'

'Stop,' said Tanner, 'you can tell it to me.'

'Why so? You know not where he is; you can-
not tell it to him.'

'I don't know that,' said Tanner. 'Come, let's
have it out; and if it will do him any good, I'll see
if we can't manage to find him.'

SYBIL

31

*I can impart my news to him, and no one else,'
said Sybil. M am solemnly bound.'

'You can't have a better counsellor than Tanner,'
urged his wife, getting curious; 'you had better
tell us.'

*1 want no counsel; 1 want that which you can
give me if you choose — information. My father in-
structed me that if, certain circumstances occurring,
it was a matter of the last urgency that I should see
him this evening, and, before nine o'clock, I was to
call here, and obtain from you the direction where to
find him; the direction,' she added in a lowered tone,
and looking Tanner full in the face, 'where they hold
their secret council to-night.'

'Hem,' said Tanner; 'I see you're on the free-
list. And pray how am I to know you are Gerard's
daughter ? '

'You do not doubt 1 am his daughter!' said Sybil,
proudly.

'Hem!' said Tanner; 'I do not know that I do
very much,' and he whispered to his wife. Sybil re-
moved from them as far as she was able.

'And this news is very urgent,' resumed Tanner;
'and concerns me, you say?'

'Concerns you all,' said Sybil; 'and every minute
is of the last importance.'

' 1 should like to have gone with you myself, and
then there could have been no mistake,' said Tanner:
'but that can't be; we have a meeting here at half-
past eight in our great room. I don't much like
breaking rules, especially in such a business; and yet,
concerning all of us, as you say, and so very urgent,
I don't see how it could do harm; and I might — I
wish I was quite sure you were the party.'

32 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'How can I satisfy you?' said Sybil, distressed.

'Perhaps the young person have got her mark on
her linen,' suggested the wife. 'Have you got a
handkerchief, ma'am?' and she took Sybil's handker-
chief, and looked at it, and examined it at every
corner. It had no mark. And this unforeseen circum-
stance of great suspicion might have destroyed every-
thing, had not the production of the handkerchief by
Sybil also brought forth a letter addressed to her from
Hatton.

'It seems to be the party,' said the wife.

'Well,' said Tanner, 'you know St. Martin's Lane,
I suppose? Well, you go up St. Martin's Lane to a
certain point, and then you will get into Seven Dials;
and then you'll go on. However, it is impossible
to direct you; you must find your way. Hunt Street,
going out of Silver Street, No. 22. 'Tis what you
call a blind street^ with no thoroughfare, and then
you go down an alley. Can you recollect that?'
, 'Fear not.'

'No. 22, Hunt Street, going out of Silver Street.
Remember the alley. It's an ugly neighbourhood; but
you go of your own accord.'

'Yes, yes. Good night.'

CHAPTER LIII.

A Humble Friend.

RGED by Sybil's entreaties the cab-
driver hurried on. With all the
skilled experience of a thorough
cockney charioteer, he tried to
conquer time and space by his rare
knowledge of short cuts and fine ac-
quaintance with unknown thoroughfares. He seemed to
avoid every street which was the customary passage
of mankind. The houses, the population, the costume,
the manners, the language, through which they whirled
their way, were of a different state and nation from
those with which the dwellers of the dainty quarters
of this city are acquainted. Now dark streets of frip-
pery and old stores, now market-places of entrails and
carrion, with gutters running gore; sometimes the
way was enveloped in the yeasty fumes of a colossal
brewery, and sometimes they plunged into a labyrinth
of lanes teeming with life, and where the dog-stealer
and the pick-pocket, the burglar and the assassin,
found a sympathetic multitude of all ages; comrades
for every enterprise, and a market for every booty.

The long summer twilight was just expiring; the
pale shadows of the moon were just steahng on; the
gas was beginning to glare in shops of tripe and ba-
15 B. D.-3 (33)

34 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

con, and the paper lanterns to adorn the stall and the
stand. They crossed a broad street which seemed
the metropolis of the district; it flamed with gin pal-
aces; a multitude were sauntering in the mild though
tainted air; bargaining, blaspheming, drinking, wran-
gling; and varying their business and their potations,
their fierce strife and their impious irreverence, with
flashes of rich humour, gleams of native wit, and
racy phrases of idiomatic slang.

Absorbed in her great mission, Sybil was almost
insensible to the scenes through which she passed,
and her innocence was thus spared many a sight and
sound that might have startled her vision or alarmed
her ear. They could not now be very distant from
the spot; they were crossing this broad way, and
then were about to enter another series of small ob-
scure dingy streets, when the cab-driver giving a
flank to his steed to stimulate it to a last effort,
the horse sprang forward, and the wheel of the cab
came off.

Sybil extricated herself from the vehicle unhurt; a
group immediately formed round the cab, a knot of
young thieves, almost young enough for infant
schools, a dustman, a woman nearly naked and very
drunk, and two unshorn ruffians with brutality
stamped on every feature, with pipes in their mouths,
and their hands in their pockets.

*I can take you no further,' said the cabman: *my
fare is three shilhngs.'

'What am I to do?' said Sybil, taking out her
purse.

'The best thing the young lady can do,' said the
dustman in a hoarse voice, 'is to stand something to
us all.'

SYBIL

35

'That's your time o'day,' squeaked a young thief.

* I'll drink to your health with very great pleasure,
my dear,' hiccuped the woman.

'How much have you got there?' said the young
thief making a dash at her purse, but he was not
quite tall enough, and failed,

'No wiolence,' said one of the ruffians, taking his
pipe out of his mouth and sending a volume of
smoke into Sybil's face, 'we'll take the young lady
to Mother Poppy's, and then we'll make a night of it.'

But at this moment appeared a policeman, one of
the permanent garrison of the quarter, who seeing
one of her Majesty's carriages in trouble thought he
must interfere. 'Hilloa,' he said, 'what's all this?'
And the cabman, who was a good fellow, though in
too much trouble to aid Sybil, explained in the terse
and picturesque language of Cockaigne, doing full
justice to his late fare, the whole circumstances.

'Oh! that's it,' said the poHceman, 'the lady's
respectable, is she ? Then I'd advise you and Hell
Fire Dick to stir your chalks, Splinterlegs. Keep
moving's the time of day, madam; you get on.
Come;' and taking the woman by her shoulder he
gave her a spin that sent her many a good yard.
'And what do you want?* he asked gruffly of the
lads.

'We wants a ticket for the Mendicity Society,'
said the captain of the infant band, putting his thumb
to his nose and running away, followed by his troop.

'And so you want to go to Silver Street?' said
her official preserver to Sybil, for she had not thought
it wise to confess her ultimate purpose, and indicate
under the apprehended circumstances the place of
rendezvous to a member of the police.

36 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Well; that's not very difficult now. Go ahead;
take the second turning to your right, and the third
to your left, and you're landed.'

Aided by these instructions, Sybil hastened on,
avoiding notice as much as was in her power, and
assisted in some degree by the advancing gloom of
night. She reached Silver Street; a long, narrow,
hilly street; and now she was at fault. There were
not many persons about, and there were few shops
here; yet one was at last at hand, and she entered
to enquire her way. The person at the counter was
engaged, and many customers awaited him : time was
very precious: Sybil had made the enquiry and re-
ceived only a supercilious stare from the shopman,
who was weighing with precision some articles that
he was serving. A young man, shabby, but of a
superior appearance to the people of this quarter,
good-looking, though with a dissolute air, and who
seemed waiting for a customer in attendance, ad-
dressed Sybil. 'I am going to Hunt Street,' he said,
'shall I show you the way?'

She accepted this offer thankfully. 'It is close at
hand, I believe?'

'Here it is,' he said; and he turned down a street.
'What is your house?'

'No. 22: a printing-office,' said Sybil; for the
street she had entered was so dark she despaired of
finding her way, and ventured to trust so far a guide
who was not a policeman.

' The very house I am going to,' said the stranger:
'I am a printer.' And they walked on some way,
until they at length stopped before a glass illumi-
nated door, covered with a red curtain. Before it
was a group of several men and women brawl-

SYBIL

37

ing, but who did not notice Sybil and her compan-
ion.

'Here we are/ said the man; and he pushed the
door open, inviting Sybil to enter. She hesitated; it
did not agree with the description that had been given
her by the coffee-house keeper, but she had seen so
much since, and felt so much, and gone through so
much, that she had not at the moment that clear
command of her memory for which she was other-
wise remarkable; but while she faltered, an inner
door was violently thrown open, and Sybil moving
aside, two girls, still beautiful in spite of gin and
paint, stepped into the street.

'This cannot be the house,' exclaimed Sybil, start-
ing back, overwhelmed with shame and terror.
'Holy Virgin, aid me!'

'And that's a blessed word to hear in this heathen
land,' exclaimed an Irishman, who was one of the
group on the outside.

'If you be of our holy Church,' said Sybil, appeal-
ing to the man who had thus spoken and whom she
gently drew aside, 'I beseech you by everything we
hold sacred, to aid me.'

'And will I not.?' said the man; 'and I should
like to see the arm that would hurt you;' and he
looked round, but the young man had disappeared.
'You are not a countrywoman, I am thinking,' he
added.

'No, but a sister in Christ,' said Sybil; Misten to
me, good friend. I hasten to my father, he is in
great danger, in Hunt Street; I know not my way,
every moment is precious; guide me, I beseech you,
honestly and truly guide me!'

'Will I not? Don't you be afraid, my dear. And

38 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

her poor father is ill! I wish I had such a daughter!
We have not far to go. You should have taken the
next turning. We must walk up this again, for 'tis
a small street with no thoroughfare. Come on with-
out fear.'

Nor did Sybil fear; for the description of the street
which the honest man had incidentally given, tallied
with her instructions. Encouraging her with many
kind words, and full of rough courtesies, the good
Irishman led her to the spot she had so long sought.
There was the court she was told to enter. It was
well lit, and, descending the steps, she stopped at
the first door on her left, and knocked.

CHAPTER LIV.

Rich and Poor.

N THE same night that Sybil was
I encountering so many dangers, the
saloons of Deloraine House blazed
\ with a thousand lights to wel-
W come the wodd of power and
fashion to a festival of almost un-

precedented magnificence. Fronting a royal park, its
long lines of illumined windows and the bursts of
gay and fantastic music that floated from its walls at-
tracted the admiration and curiosity of another party
that was assembled in the same fashionable quarter,
beneath a canopy not less bright and reclining on a
couch scarcely less luxurious, for they were lit by the
stars and reposed upon the grass.

M say, Jim,' said a young genius of fourteen,
stretching himself upon the turf, * I pity them ere
jarvies a-sitting on their boxes all the night and
waiting for the nobs what is dancing. They 'as no
repose.'

'But they 'as porter,' replied his friend, a sedater
spirit, with the advantage of an additional year or
two of experience; 'they takes their pot of half-and-
half by turns, and if their name is called, the link

(39)

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

what they subscribe for to pay sings out, ''Here;"
and that's the way their guvners is done.'

M think I should Hke to be a link, Jim,' said the
young one.

M wish you may get it,' was the response: 'it's
the next best thing to a crossing: it's what everyone
looks to when he enters public life, but he soon finds
'tain't to be done without a deal of interest. They
keeps it to themselves, and never lets anyone in unless
he makes himself very troublesome and gets up a
party agin 'em.'

* I wonder what the nobs has for supper,' said
the young one pensively. 'Lots of kidneys, I dare
say.'

'Oh! no; sweets is the time of day in these here
blowouts; syllabubs like blazes, and snapdragon as
makes the flunkies quite pale.'

* I would thank you, sir, not to tread upon this
child,' said a widow. She had three others with her
slumbering around, and this was the youngest wrapped
in her only shawl.

'Madam,' replied the person whom she addressed,
in tolerable English, but with a marked accent, ' I
have bivouacked in many lands, but never with so
young a comrade: I beg you a thousand pardons.'

* Sir, you are very polite. These warm nights are
a great blessing, but I am sure I knoW not what we
shall do in the fall of the leaf.'

'Take no thought of the morrow,' said the for-
eigner, who was a Pole, had served as a boy beneath
the suns of the Peninsula under Soult, and fought
against Diebitsch on the banks of the icy Vistula.
'It brings many changes.' And, arranging the cloak
which he had taken that day out of pawn around

SYBIL

41

him, he delivered himself up to sleep with that facil-
ity which is not uncommon among soldiers.

Here broke out a brawl; two girls began fighting
and blaspheming; a man immediately came up,
chastised, and separated them. *I am the Lord
Mayor of the night,' he said, 'and I will have no row
here. Tis the like of you that makes the beaks
threaten to expel us from our lodgings.' His author-
ity seemed generally recognised, the girls were quiet;
but they had disturbed a sleeping man, who roused
himself, looked around him and said with a scared
look, 'Where am 1? What's all this?'

'Oh! it's nothin',' said the elder of the two lads
we first noticed, 'only a couple of unfortinate gals
who've prigged a watch from a cove what was
lushy, and fell asleep under the trees, between this
and Kinsington.'

'I wish they had not waked me,' said the man,
'I walked as far as from Stokenchurch, and that's a
matter of forty mile, this morning, to see if I could
get some work, and went to bed here without any
supper. I'm blessed if I worn't dreaming of a roast
leg of pork.'

'It has not been a lucky day for me,' rejoined
the lad; 'I could not find a single gentleman's horse
to hold, so help me, except one what was at the
House of Commons, and he kept me there two
mortal hours, and said, when he came out, that he
would remember me next time. I ain't tasted no
wittals to-day, except some cat's-meat and a cold po-
tato, what was given me by a cabman; but I have got
a quid here, and if you are very low, I'll give you half.'

In the meantime Lord Valentine, and the Princess
Stephanie of Eurasberg, with some companions worthy

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

of such a pair, were dancing a new mazurka before
the admiring assembly at Deloraine House. The ball
was in the statue gallery, illumined on this night in
the Russian fashion, which, while it diffused a bril-
liant light throughout the beautiful chamber, was
peculiarly adapted to develop the contour of the
marble forms of grace and loveliness that were ranged
around.

* Where is Arabella?' inquired Lord Marney of his
mother; *1 want to present young Huntingford to
her. He can be of great use to me, but he bores me
so, I cannot talk to him. I want to present him to
Arabella.'

'Arabella is in the blue drawing-room. I saw her
just now with Mr. Jermyn and Charles. Count Soud-
riaffsky is teaching them some Russian tricks.'

'What are Russian tricks to me? she must talk to
young Huntingford; everything depends on his work-
ing with me against the Cut-and-Come-again branch-
line; they have refused me my compensation, and I
am not going to have my estate cut up into ribbons
without compensation.'

'My dear Lady Deloraine,' said Lady de Mowbray,
'how beautiful your gallery looks to-night! Certainly
there is nothing in London that lights up so well.'

'Its greatest ornaments are its guests. 1 am
charmed to see Lady Joan looking so well.'

' You think so ?'

' Indeed.*

'I wish ' and here Lady de Mowbray gave a

smiling sigh. 'What do you think of Mr. Mount-
chesney ?'

'He is universally admired.'

'So everyone says, and yet '

SYBIL

43

'Well, what do you think of the Dashville, Fitz?'
said Mr. Berners to Lord Fitz-Heron, * I saw you
dancing with her.'

*I can't bear her: she sets up to be natural, and
is only rude; mistakes insolence for innocence; says
everything which comes first to her lips, and thinks
she is gay when she is only giddy.'

*Tis brilliant,' said Lady Joan to Mr. Mountchesney.

'When you are here,' he murmured.

*And yet a ball in a gallery of art is not, in my
opinion, in good taste. The associations which are
suggested by sculpture are not festive. Repose is the
characteristic of sculpture. Do not you think so?'

'Decidedly,' said Mr. Mountchesney. 'We danced
in the gallery at Matfield this Christmas, and 1 thought
all the time that a gallery is not the place for a ball;
it is too long and too narrow.'

Lady Joan looked at him and her lip rather curled.

' I wonder if Valentine has sold that bay cob of
his,' said Lord Milford to Lord Eugene de Vere.

'I wonder,' said Lord Eugene.

'I wish you would ask him, Eugene,' said Lord
Milford; 'you »mderstand, I don't want him to know
I want it.'

"Tis such a bore to ask questions,' said Lord
Eugene.

' Shall we carry Chichester ? ' asked Lady Firebrace
of Lady St. JuHans.

'Oh! do not speak to me ever again of the House
of Commons,' she rephed in a tone of affected
despair. ' What use is winning our way by units ?
It may take years. Lord Protocol says, that "one is
enough." That Jamaica affair has really ended by
greatly strengthening them.'

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'I do not despair,' said Lady Firebrace. 'The
unequivocal adhesion of the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine is
a great thing. It gives us the northern division at a
dissolution.'

* That is to say, in five years, my dear Lady Fire-
brace. The country will be ruined before that.'

' We shall see. Is it a settled thing between Lady
Joan and Mr. Mountchesney ? '

'Not the slightest foundation. Lady Joan is a
most sensible girl, as well as a most charming person,
and my dear friend. She is not in a hurry to marry,
and quite right. If indeed Frederick were a little
more steady — but nothing shall ever induce me to
consent to his marrying her unless I thought he was
worthy of her.'

*You are such a good mother,' exclaimed Lady
Firebrace, 'and such a good friend! I am glad to
hear it is not true about Mr. Mountchesney.'

' If you could only help me, my dear Lady Fire-
brace, to put an end to that affair between Frederick
and Lady WaUington. It is so silly, and getting
talked about; and in his heart too he really loves Lady
Joan; only he is scarcely aware of it himself.'

'We must manage it,' said Lady Firebrace, with a
look of encouraging mystery.

'Do, my dear creature; speak to him; he is very
much guided by your opinion. Tell him everybody
is laughing at him, and any other little thing that oc-
curs to you.'

'I will come directly,' said Lady Marney to her
husband, 'only let me see this.'

'Well, I will bring Huntingford here. Mind you
speak to him a great deal; take his arm, and go
down to supper with him, if you can. He is a very

SYBIL

45

nice, sensible young fellow, and you will like him
very much, I am sure; a little shy at first, but he
only wants bringing out.'

A dexterous description of one of the most un-
licked and unlickable cubs that ever entered society
with forty thousand a year; courted by all, and with
just that degree of cunning that made him suspicious
of every attention.

'This dreadful Lord Huntingford! ' said Lady Mar-
ney.

* Jermyn and I will interfere,' said Egremont, 'and
help you.'

'No, no,' said Lady Marney, shaking her head, 'I
must do it.'

At this moment a groom of the chambers ad-
vanced, and drew Egremont aside, saying in a low
tone, ' Your servant, Mr. Egremont, is here, and wishes
to see you instantly.'

'My servant! Instantly! What the deuce can be
the matter? I hope the Albany is not on fire,' and
he quitted the room.

In the outer hall, amid a crowd of footmen, Egre-
mont recognised his valet, who immediately came
forward.

' A porter has brought this letter, sir, and I thought
it best to come on with it at once.'

The letter, directed to Egremont, bore also on its
superscription these words: 'This letter must be in-
stantly carried by the bearer to Mr. Egremont, wher-
ever he may be.'

Egremont, with some change of countenance, drew
aside, and opening the letter, read it by a lamp at
hand. It must have been very brief; but the face of
him to whom it was addressed, became, as he pe-

46 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

rused its lines, greatly agitated. When he had finished
reading it, he seemed for a moment lost in profound
thought; then looking up, he dismissed his servant
without instructions, and hastening back to the as-
sembly, he enquired of the groom of the chambers
whether Lord John Russell, whom he had observed
in the course of the evening, was still present; and
he was answered in the affirmative.

About a quarter of an hour after this incident,
Lady Firebrace said to Lady St. Julians in a tone of
mysterious alarm, *Do you see that?'

'No! what?'

'Do not look as if you observed them: Lord John
and Mr. Egremont, in the furthest window; they have
been there these ten minutes, in the most earnest
conversation. I am afraid we have lost him.'

'I have always been expecting it,' said Lady St.
Julians. 'He breakfasts with that Mr. Trenchard, and
does all that sort of things. Men who breakfast out
are generally Liberals. Have not you observed that ?
1 wonder why?'

' It shows a restless revolutionary mind,' said Lady
Firebrace, 'that can settle to nothing; but must be
running after gossip the moment they are awake.'

'Yes,' said Lady St. Julians. ' I think those men
who breakfast out, or who give breakfasts, are gener-
ally dangerous characters; at least, I would not trust
them. The Whigs are very fond of that sort of thing.
If Mr. Egremont joins them, I really do not see what
shadow of a claim Lady Deloraine can urge to have
anything.'

' She only wants one thing,' said Lady Firebrace,
'and we know she cannot have that.'
'Why?'

SYBIL

47

'Because Lady St. Julians will have it.*

'You are too kind,' with many smiles.

*No, I assure you, Lord Masque told me that her
Majesty ' and here Lady Firebrace whispered.

* Well,' said Lady St. Julians, evidently much grati-
fied, M do not think I am one who am likely to for-
get my friends.'

'That I am sure you are not!' said Lady Fire-
brace.

CHAPTER LV.

The Conspirators.

EHIND the printing-office in the
alley, at the door of which we left
Sybil, was a yard that led to some
premises that had once been used
as a workshop, but were now gen-
erally unoccupied. In a rather spa-
cious chamber, over which was a loft, five men, one
of whom was Gerard, were busily engaged. There
was no furniture in the room except a few chairs and
a deal table, on which were a solitary light and a
variety of papers.

* Depend upon it,' said Gerard, ' we must stick to
the national holiday: we can do nothing effectively,
unless the movement is simultaneous. They have
not troops to cope with a simultaneous movement,
and the hoHday is the only machinery to secure unity
of action. No work for six weeks, and the rights of
labour will be acknowledged!'

' We shall never be able to make the people unani-
mous in a cessation of labour,' said a pale young man,
very thin, but with a countenance of remarkable en-
ergy. *The selfish instincts will come into play and
will balk our political object, while a great increase
of physical suffering must be inevitable.'
(48)

SYBIL

49

Mt might be done,' said a middle-aged thickset
man, in a thoughtful tone. ' If the unions were really
to put their shoulder to the wheel, it might be
done.'

'And if it is not done,' said Gerard, * what do you
propose ? The people ask you to guide them. Shrink
at such a conjuncture, and our influence over them is
forfeited, and justly forfeited.'

* 1 am for partial but extensive insurrections,' said
the young man. 'Sufficient in extent and number to
demand all the troops and yet to distract the military
movements. We can count on Birmingham again, if
we act at once before their new Police Act is in
force. Manchester is ripe, and several of the cotton
towns; but above all 1 have letters that assure me
that at this moment we can do anything in Wales.'

'Glamorganshire is right to a man,' said Wilkins,
a Baptist teacher. ' And trade is so bad that the
holiday at all events must take place there, for the
masters themselves are extinguishing their furnaces.'

'All the north is seething,' said Gerard.

' We must contrive to agitate the metropolis,' said
Maclast, a shrewd carroty-haired paper-stainer. ' We
must have weekly meetings at Kennington and dem-
onstrations at White Conduit House: we cannot do
more here, 1 fear, than talk, but a few thousand men
on Kennington Common every Saturday and some
spicy resolutions will keep the Guards in London.'

'Ay, ay,' said Gerard; 'I wish the woollen and
cotton trades were as bad to do as the iron, and we
should need no holiday as you say, Wilkins. How-
ever, it will come. In the mean time the Poor-law
pinches and terrifies, and will make even the most
spiritless turn.'

15 B. D.— 4

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'The accounts to-day from the north are very en-
couraging though,' said the young man. 'Stevens is
producing a great effect, and this plan of our people
going in procession and taking possession of the
churches very much affects the imagination of the
multitude.'

'Ah!' said Gerard, 'if we could only have the
Church on our side, as in the good old days, we
would soon put an end to the demon tyranny of
Capital.'

'And now,* said the pale young man, taking up
a manuscript paper, 'to our immediate business. Here
is the draft of the projected proclamation of the Con-
vention on the Birmingham outbreak. It enjoins peace
and order, and counsels the people to arm themselves
in order to secure both. You understand: that they
may resist if the troops and the police endeavour to
produce disturbance.'

'Ay, ay,' said Gerard. 'Let it be stout. We will
settle this at once, and so get it out to-morrow.
Then for action.'

'But we must circulate this pamphlet of the Polish
Count on the manner of encountering cavalry with
pikes,' said Maclast.

"Tis printed,' said the stout thickset man; 'we
have set it up on a broadside. We have sent ten
thousand to the north and five thousand to John Frost.
We shall have another delivery to-morrow. It takes
very generally.'

The pale young man then read the draft of the
proclamation; it was canvassed and criticised, sen-
tence by sentence; altered, approved; finally put to the
vote, and unanimously carried. On the morrow it was
to be posted in every thoroughfare of the metropolis.

SYBIL

51

and circulated in every great city of the provinces and
every populous district of labour.

'And now,* said Gerard, 'I shall go to-morrow to
the north, where I am wanted. But before I go, 1 pro-
pose, as suggested yesterday, that we five, together
with Langley, whom I counted on seeing here to-
night, now form ourselves into a committee for arm-
ing the people. Three of us are permanent in London;
Wilkins and myself will aid you in the provinces.
Nothing can be decided on this head till we see Lang-
ley, who will make a communication from Birming-
ham that cannot be trusted to writing. The seven
o'clock train must have long since arrived. He is now
a good hour behind his time.'

*I hear footsteps,' said Maclast.

* He comes,' said Gerard.

The door of the chamber opened and a woman
entered. Pale, agitated, exhausted, she advanced to
them in the glimmering light.

'What is this ?' said several of the council.

'Sybil!' exclaimed the astonished Gerard, and he
rose from his seat.

She caught the arm of her father, and leant on
him for a moment in silence. Then looking up, with
an expression which seemed to indicate that she was
rallying her last energies, she said, in a voice low,
yet so distinct that it reached the ear of all present,
'There is not an instant to lose; fly!'

The men rose hastily from their seats; they ap-
proached the messenger of danger; Gerard waved
them off, for he perceived his daughter was sinking.
Gently he placed her in his chair; she was sensible,
for she grasped his arm, and she murmured, still she
murmured, 'Fly!'

52 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

"Tis very strange/ said Maclast.

M feel queer/ said the thickset man.

'Methinks she looks like a heavenly messenger/
said Wilkins.

'\ had no idea that earth had anything so fair/
said the youthful scribe of proclamations.

*Hush, friends/ said Gerard; and then he bent
over Sybil, and said in a low soothing voice, ' Tell
me, my child, what is it?*

She looked up to her father, a glance as it were
of devotion and despair; her lips moved, but they re-
fused their office, and expressed no words. There
was a deep silence in the room.

'She is gone,' said her father.

'Water,' said the young man, and he hurried away
to obtain some.

'I feel queer,' said his thickset colleague to Ma-
clast.

'I will answer for Langley as for myself,' said Ma-
clast; 'and there is not another human being aware
of our purpose/

'Except Morley.'

'Yes; except Morley. But I should as soon doubt
Gerard as Stephen Morley.'
'Certainly.'

'I cannot conceive how she traced me,' said Ger-
ard. ' I have never even breathed to her of our
meeting. Would we had some water! Ah! here it
comes.'

'I arrest you in the Queen's name,' said a Ser-
jeant of police. 'Resistance is vain.' Maclast blew
out the light, and then ran up into the loft, followed
by the thickset man, who fell down the stairs. Wil-
kins got up the chimney. The serjeant took a Ian-

SYBIL

53

tern from his pocket, and threw a powerful light on
the chamber, while his followers entered, seized and
secured all the papers, and commenced their search.

The light fell upon a group that did not move;
the father holding the hand of his insensible child,
while he extended his other arm as if to preserve her
from the profanation of the touch of the invaders.

'You are Walter Gerard, I presume?' said the Ser-
jeant; 'six foot two, without shoes.'

'Whoever I may be,' he repHed, M presume you
will produce your warrant, friend, before you touch
me.'

' 'Tis here. We want five of you, named herein,
and all others that may happen to be found in your
company.'

'I shall obey the warrant,' said Gerard, after he
had examined it; 'but this maiden, my daughter,
knows nothing of this meeting or its purpose. She
has but just arrived, and how she traced me I know
not. You will let me recover her, and then permit
her to depart.'

'Can't let no one out of my sight found in this
room.'

'But she is innocent, even if we were guilty; she
could be nothing else but innocent, for she knows
nothing of this meeting and its business, both of
which I am prepared at the right time and place to
vindicate. She entered this room a moment only be-
fore yourself, entered and swooned.'

'Can't help that; must take her; she can tell the
magistrate anything she likes, and he must de-
cide.'

'Why, you are not afraid of a young girl?'

'I am afraid of nothing, but I must do my duty.

54 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Come, we have no time for talk. I must take you
both.'

'By G — d! you shall not take her;' and letting
go her hand, Gerard advanced before her and assumed
a position of defence. 'You know, I find, my height;
my strength does not shame my stature! Look to
yourself. Advance and touch this maiden, and 1 will
fell you and your minions hke oxen at their pasture.'

The inspector took a pistol from his pocket, and
pointed it at Gerard. 'You see,' he said, 'resistance
is quite vain.'

' For slaves and cravens, but not for us. I say,
you shall not touch her till I am dead at her feet.
Now, do your worst.'

At this moment, two policemen who had been
searching the loft, descended with Maclast, who had
vainly attempted to effect his escape over a neighbour-
ing roof; the thickset man was already secured; and
Wilkins had been pulled down the chimney, and
made his appearance in as grimy a state as such
a shelter would naturally have occasioned. The young
man too, their first prisoner, who had been captured
before they had entered the room, was also brought
in; there was now abundance of light; the four pris-
oners were ranged and well guarded at the end of
the apartment; Gerard, standing before Sybil, still
maintained his position of defence, and the serjeant
was, a few yards away, in his front with his pistol
in his hand.

'Well, you are a queer chap,' said the serjeant;
'but I must do my duty. I shall give orders to my
men to seize you, and if you resist them, I shall
shoot you through the head.'

'Stop!' called out one of the prisoners, the young

SYBIL

55

man who drew proclamations, 'she moves. Do with
us as you think fit, but you cannot be so harsh as
to seize one that is senseless, and a woman!'

M must do my duty,' said the Serjeant, rather per-
plexed at the situation. 'Well, if you like, take steps
to restore her, and when she has come to herself,
she shall be moved in a hackney coach alone with
her father.'

The means at hand to recover Sybil were rude,
but they assisted a reviving nature. She breathed, she
sighed, slowly opened her beautiful dark eyes, and
looked around. Her father held her death-cold hand;
she returned his pressure; her lips moved, and still
she murmured 'Fly!'

Gerard looked at the Serjeant. 'I am ready,' he
said, 'and I will carry her.' The officer nodded as-
sent. Guarded by two policemen, the tall delegate
of Mowbray bore his precious burthen out of the
chamber through the yard, the printing-offices, up
the alley, till a hackney-coach received them in Hunt
Street, around which a mob had already collected,
though kept at a discreet distance by the police. One
officer entered the coach with them ; another mounted
the box. Two other coaches carried the rest of the
prisoners and their guards, and within half an hour
from the arrival of Sybil at the scene of the secret
meeting, she was on her way to Bow Street to be
examined as a prisoner of state.

Sybil rallied quickly during their progress to the
police-office. Satisfied to find herself with her father,
she would have enquired as to all that had happened,
but Gerard at first discouraged her; at length he
thought it wisest gradually to convey to her that they
were prisoners, but he treated the matter lightly, did

56 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

not doubt that she would immediately be discharged,
and added that though he might be detained for a
day or so, his offence was at all events bailable, and
he had friends on whom he could rely. When Sybil
clearly comprehended that she was a prisoner, and
that her public examination was impending, she be-
came silent, and, leaning back in the coach, covered
her face with her hands.

The prisoners arrived at Bow Street; they were
hurried into a back office, where they remained some
time unnoticed, several policemen remaining in the
room. At length, about twenty minutes having
elapsed, a man dressed in black and of a severe as-
pect, entered the room, accompanied by an inspector
of police. He first enquired whether these were the
prisoners, what were their names and descriptions,
which each had to give and which were written
down, where they were arrested, why they were ar-
rested; then scrutinising them sharply, he said the
magistrate was at the Home Office, and he doubted
whether they could be examined until the morrow.
Upon this Gerard commenced stating the circum-
stances under which Sybil had unfortunately been ar-
rested, but the gentleman in black, with a severe
aspect, immediately told him to hold his tongue, and,
when Gerard persisted, declared that, if he did not
immediately cease, he should be separated from the
other prisoners, and be ordered into solitary confine-
ment.

Another half-hour of painful suspense. The prison-
ers were not permitted to hold any conversation.
Sybil sat half reclining on a form with her back
against the wall, and her face covered, silent and mo-
tionless. At the end of half an hour, the inspector of

SYBIL

57

police, who had visited them with the gentleman in
black, entered, and announced that the prisoners could
not be brought up for examination that evening, and
they must make themselves as comfortable as they
could for the night. Gerard made a last appeal to the
inspector that Sybil might be allowed a separate
chamber, and in this he was unexpectedly successful.

The inspector was a kind-hearted man: he lived
at the office and his wife was the housekeeper. He
had already given her an account, an interesting ac-
count, of his female prisoner. The good woman's
imagination was touched as well as her heart; she
had herself suggested that they ought to soften the
rigour of the fair prisoner's lot; and her husband
therefore almost anticipated the request of Gerard. He
begged Sybil to accompany him to his better half, and
at once promised all the comforts and convenience
which they could command. As, attended by him,
she took her way to the apartments of his family,
they passed through a room in which there were
writing materials; and Sybil, speaking for the first
time, and in a faint voice, enquired of the inspector
whether it were permitted to apprise a friend of her
situation. She was answered in the affirmative, on
condition that the note was previously perused by
him.

M will write it at once,' she said, and taking up a
pen inscribed these words: —

*I followed your counsel; I entreated him to quit
London this night. He pledged himself to do so on
the morrow.

'I learnt he was attending a secret meeting; that
there was urgent peril. I tracked him through scenes

58 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

of terror. Alas! I arrived only in time to be myself
seized as a conspirator, and I have been arrested
and carried a prisoner to Bow Street, where I write
this.

' I ask you not to interfere for him ; that would be
vain; but if I were free, I might at least secure him
justice. But I am not free: I am to be brought up
for public examination to-morrow, if I survive this
night.

* You are powerful; you know all; you know what
I say is truth. None else will credit it. Save me!'

'And now,' said Sybil to the inspector in a tone
of mournful desolation and of mild sweetness, ' all de-
pends on your faith to me,' and she extended him
the letter, which he read.

'Whoever he may be, and wherever he may be,'
said the man with emotion, for the spirit of Sybil had
already controlled his nature, 'provided the person to
whom this letter is addressed is within possible dis-
tance, fear not it shall reach him.'

'I will seal and address it then,' said Sybil, and
she addressed the letter to

'THE HON. CHARLES EGREMONT, M.P.,'

adding that superscription the sight of which had so
agitated Egremont at Deloraine House.

CHAPTER LVI.
The Rescue.

IGHT waned: and Sybil was at
length slumbering. The cold that
precedes the dawn had stolen over
her senses, and calmed the ex-
citement of her nerves. She was
lying on the floor, covered with
a cloak of which her kind hostess had prevailed on
her to avail herself, and was partly resting on a chair,
at which she had been praying when exhausted na-
ture gave way and she slept. Her bonnet had fallen
off, and her rich hair, which had broken loose, cov-
ered her shoulder like a mantle,
brief and disturbed, but it had
soothed the irritated brain. She
terror from a dream in which she had been dragged
through a mob, and carried before a tribunal. The
coarse jeers, the brutal threats, still echoed in her
ear; and when she looked around, she could not for
some moments recall or recognise the scene. In one
corner of the room, which was sufficiently spacious,
was a bed occupied by the still sleeping wife of the
inspector; there was a great deal of heavy furniture
of dark mahogany; a bureau, several chests of drawers;
over the mantel was a piece of faded embroidery

(59)

Her slumber
in a great
woke, however

was
degree
in

6o BENJAMIN DISRAELI

framed, that had been executed by the wife of the
inspector, when she was at school, and opposite to
it, on the other side, were portraits of Dick Curtis
and Dutch Sam, who had been the tutors of her hus-
band, and now lived as heroes in his memory.

Slowly came over Sybil the consciousness of the
dreadful eve that was past. She remained for some
time on her knees in silent prayer: then, stepping
lightly, she approached the window. It was barred.
The room which she inhabited was a high story of
the house; it looked down upon one of those half-
tawdry, half-squalid streets that one finds in the
vicinity of our theatres; some wretched courts, haunts
of misery and crime, blended with gin palaces and
slang taverns, burnished and brazen; not a being was
stirring. It was just that single hour of the twenty-
four when crime ceases, debauchery is exhausted, and
even desolation finds a shelter.

It was dawn, but still grey. For the first time
since she had been a prisoner, Sybil was alone. A
prisoner, and in a few hours to be examined before
a public tribunal! Her heart sank. How far her
father had committed himself was entirely a mystery
to her; but the language of Morley, and all that she
had witnessed, impressed her with the conviction
that he was deeply implicated. He had indeed
spoken in their progress to the police-office with
confidence as to the future, but then he had every
motive to encourage her in her despair, and to sup-
port her under the overwhelming circumstances in
which she was so suddenly involved.

What a catastrophe to his aspirations! It tore her
heart to think of him ! As for herself, she would still
hope that ultimately she might obtain justice, but she

SYBIL

6i

could scarcely flatter herself that at the first any distinc-
tion would be made between her case and that of the
other prisoners. She would probably be committed
for trial; and though her innocence on that occasion
might be proved, she would have been a prisoner in
the interval, instead of devoting all her energies in
freedom to the support and assistance of her father.
She shrank, too, with all the delicacy of a woman,
from the impending examination in open court before
the magistrate. Supported by her convictions, vindi-
cating a sacred principle, there was no trial, perhaps,
to which Sybil could not have been superior, and no
test of her energy and faith which she would not
have triumphantly encountered; but to be hurried Hke
a criminal to the bar of a police-office, suspected of
the lowest arts of sedition, ignorant even of what she
was accused, without a conviction to support her, or
the ennobling consciousness of having failed at least
in a great cause: all these were circumstances which
infinitely disheartened and depressed her. She felt
sometimes that she should be unable to meet the oc-
casion; had it not been for Gerard, she could almost
have wished that death might release her from its
base perplexities.

Was there any hope? In the agony of her soul
she had confided last night in one; with scarcely a
bewildering hope that he could save her. He might
not have the power, the opportunity, the wish. He
might shrink from mixing himself up with such char-
acters and such transactions; he might not have re-
ceived her hurried appeal in time to act upon it, even
if the desire of her soul were practicable. A thou-
sand difficulties, a thousand obstacles now occurred
to her; and she felt her hopelessness.

62 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Yet, notwithstanding her extreme anxiety, and the
absence of all surrounding objects to soothe and to
console her, the expanding dawn revived and even
encouraged Sybil. In spite of the confined situation,
she could still partially behold a sky dappled with
rosy hues; a sense of freshness touched her; she could
not resist endeavouring to open the window and feel
the air, notwithstanding all the bars. The wife of the
inspector stirred, and half slumbering, murmured, 'Are
you up? It cannot be more than five o'clock. If you
open the window we shall catch cold; but I will rise
and help you to dress.*

This woman, like her husband, was naturally kind,
and at once influenced by Sybil. They both treated
her as a superior being; and if, instead of the daughter
of a lowly prisoner and herself a prisoner, she had
been the noble child of a captive minister of state,
they could not have extended to her a more humble
and even delicate solicitude.

It had not yet struck seven, and the wife of the
inspector suddenly stopping and listening, said, * They
are stirring early:* and then, after a moment's pause,
she opened the door, at which she stood for some
time, endeavouring to catch the meaning of the mys-
terious sounds. She looked back at Sybil, and saying,
'Hush, I shall be back directly,' she withdrew, shut-
ting the door.

In little more than two hours, as Sybil had been
informed, she would be summoned to her examina-
tion. It was a sickening thought. Hope vanished as
the catastrophe advanced. She almost accused her-
self for having without authority sought out her
father; it had been, as regarded him, a fruitless mis-
sion, and, by its results on her, had aggravated his

SYBIL

63

present sorrows and perplexities. Her mind again
recurred to him whose counsel had indirectly prompted
her rash step, and to whose aid in her infinite hope-
lessness she had appealed. The woman who had all
this time been only standing on the landing-place
without the door, now re-entered with a puzzled and
curious air, saying, 'I cannot make it out; some one
has arrived.'

'Some one has arrived.' Simple yet agitating
words. *Is it unusual,' enquired Sybil in a trembling
tone, *for persons to arrive at this hour?'

'Yes,* said the wife of the inspector. 'They never
bring them from the stations until the olfice opens.
I cannot make it out. Hush!' and at this moment
some one tapped at the door.

The woman returned to the door and reopened it,
and some words were spoken which did not reach
Sybil, whose heart beat violently as a wild thought
rushed over her mind. The suspense was so intoler-
able, her agitation so great, that she was on the
point of advancing and asking if — when the door was
shut and she was again left alone. She threw herself
on the bed. It seemed to her that she had lost all
control over her intelligence. All thought and feeling
merged in that deep suspense, when the order of our
being seems to stop and quiver, as it were, upon its
axis.

The woman returned; her countenance was glad.
Perceiving the agitation of Sybil, she said, 'You may
dry your eyes, my dear. There is nothing like a
friend at court; there's a warrant from the Secretary of
State for your release.*

'No, no,' said Sybil springing from her chair. 'Is
he here?'

64 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

' What, the Secretary of State ? ' said the woman.

'No, no; I mean is anyone here?'

'There is a coach waiting for you at the door
with the messenger from the office, and you are to
depart forthwith. My husband is here; it was he
who knocked at the door. The warrant came before
the office was opened.'

*My father! I must see him.'

The inspector at this moment tapped again at the
door and then entered. He caught the last request
of Sybil, and replied to it in the negative. *You
must not stay,' he said; 'you must be off immedi-
ately. I will tell all to your father. And take a hint;
this affair may be bailable or it may not be. I can't
give an opinion, but it depends on the evidence. If
you have any good man you know, I mean a house-
holder long established and well to do in the world,
I advise you to lose no time in looking him up.
That will do your father much more good than say-
ing good-bye and all that sort of thing.'

Bidding farewell to his kind wife, and leaving
many weeping messages for her father, Sybil de-
scended the stairs with the inspector. The office was
not opened; a couple of policemen only were in the
passage, and, as she appeared, one of them went
forth to clear the way for Sybil to the coach that was
waiting for her. A milkwoman or two, a stray
chimney-sweep, a pieman with his smoking apparatus,
and several of those nameless nothings that always
congregate and make the nucleus of a mob, probably
our young friends who had been passing the night in
Hyde Park, had already gathered round the office
door. They were dispersed and returned again and
took up their position at a more respectful distance,

SYBIL

abusing with many racy execrations that ancient body
which from a traditionary habit they still called the
new police.

A man in a loose white great-coat, his counte-
nance concealed by a shawl which was wound round
his neck and by his slouched hat, assisted Sybil into
the coach, and pressed her hand at the same time
with great tenderness. Then he mounted the box by
the driver, and ordered him to make the best of his
way to Smith Square.

With a beating heart, Sybil leant back in the
coach and clasped her hands. Her brain was too
wild to think; the incidents of her life during the last
four-and-twenty hours had been so strange and rapid
that she seemed almost to resign any quality of intel-
ligent control over her fortunes, and to deliver herself
up to the shifting visions of the startling dream. His
voice had sounded in her ear as his hand had touched
hers. And on those tones her memory lingered, and
that pressure had reached her heart. What tender
devotion! What earnest fidelity! What brave and
romantic faith! Had she breathed on some talis-
man, and called up some obedient genie to her
aid, the spirit could not have been more loyal, nor
the completion of her behest more ample and pre-
cise.

She passed the towers of the Church of St. John;
of the saint who had seemed to guard over her in
the exigency of her existence. She was approaching
her threshold; the blood left her cheek, her heart
palpitated. The coach stopped. Trembling and timid,
she leant upon his arm and yet dared not look upon
his face. They entered the house; they were in the
room where two months before he had knelt to her

15 B. D.-5

66 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

in vain, which yesterday had been the scene of so
many heart-rending passions.

As in some delicious dream, when the enchanted
fancy has traced for a time with coherent bliss the
stream of bright adventures and sweet and touching
phrase, there comes at last some wild gap in the flow
of fascination, and by means which we cannot trace,
and by an agency which we cannot pursue, we find
ourselves in some enrapturing situation that is, as it
were, the ecstasy of our life; so it happened now,
that, while in clear and precise order there seemed to
flit over the soul of Sybil all that had passed, all that
he had done, all that she felt, by some mystical
process which memory could not recall, Sybil found
herself pressed to the throbbing heart of Egremont,
nor shrinking from the embrace, which expressed the
tenderness of his devoted love I

CHAPTER LVII.

Return of the Delegate.

OWBRAY was in a state of great
excitement. It was Saturday even-
ing; the mills were closed; the news
had arrived of the arrest of the
delegate.

'Here's a go!' said Dandy Mick
to Devilsdust. 'What do you think of this.?'
'It's the beginning of the end,' said Devilsdust.
*The deuce!' said the Dandy, who did not clearly
comprehend the bent of the observation of his much
pondering and philosophic friend, but was touched by
its oracular terseness.

'We must see Warner,' said Devilsdust, 'and call
a meeting of the people on the moor for to-morrow
evening. I will draw up some resolutions. We must
speak out; we must terrify the capitalists.'
*I am all for a strike,' said Mick.
"Tisn't ripe,' said Devilsdust.
*But that's what you always say. Dusty,' said
Mick.

*I watch events,' said Devilsdust. 'If you want
to be a leader of the people you must learn to watch
events.'

'But what do you mean by watching events?'

(67)

68 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Do you see Mother Carey's stall?' said Dusty,
pointing in the direction of the counter of the good-
natured widow.

'I should think I did; and what's more, Julia
owes her a tick for herrings.'

'Right,' said Devilsdust, 'and nothing but herrings
are to be seen on her board. Two years ago it was
meat.'

'I twig,' said Mick.

'Wait till it's wegetables; when the people can't
buy even fish. Then we will talk about strikes.
That's what I call watching events.'

Julia, Caroline, and Harriet came up to them.

'Mick,' said Julia, 'we want to go to the Temple.'

'I wish you may get it,' said Mick shaking his
head. 'When you have learnt to watch events, Julia,
you will understand that under present circumstances
the Temple is no go.'

'And why so, Dandy?' said Julia.

' Do you see Mother Carey's stall ? ' said Mick,
pointing in that direction. 'When there's a tick at
Madam Carey's there is no tin for Chaifmg Jack.
That's what I call watching events.'

'Oh! as for the tin,' said Caroline, 'in these half-
time days that's quite out of fashion. But they do
say it's the last night at the Temple, for Chafifmg
Jack means to shut up, it does not pay any longer;
and we want a lark. I'll stand treat; I'll put my ear-
rings up the spout; they must go at last, and I would
sooner at any time go to my uncle's for frolic than
woe.'

'I am sure I should like very much to go to the
Temple, if anyone would pay for me,' said Harriet,
'but I won't pawn nothing.'

SYBIL

69

Mf we only pay and hear them sing,' said Julia in
a coaxing tone.

'Very like/ said Mick; 'there's nothing that makes
one so thirsty as listening to a song, particularly if it
touches the feelings. Don't you remember, Dusty,
when we used to encore that German fellow in
Scots wha hue"? We always had it five times.
Hang me if 1 wasn't blind drunk at the end of it.'

*I tell you what, young ladies,' said Devilsdust,
looking very solemn, 'you're dancing on a volcano.'

*0h! my,' said Caroline, 'I am sure I wish we
were; though what you mean exactly I don't quite
know.'

M mean that we shall all soon be slaves,' said
Devilsdust.

'Not if we get the Ten-Hour Bill,' said Harriet.

' And no cleaning of machinery in meal-time,' said
JuHa; 'that is a shame.'

'You don't know what you are talking about,'
said Devilsdust. ' I tell you, if the capitalists put
down Gerard we're done for another ten years, and
by that time we shall be all used up.'

'Lor! Dusty, you quite terrify one,' said Caroline.

'It's a true bill though. Instead of going to the
Temple we must meet on the moor, and in as great
numbers as possible. Go you and get all your sweet-
hearts. I must see your father, Harriet; he must pre-
side. We will have the Hymn of Labour sung by a
hundred thousand voices, in chorus. It will strike
terror into the hearts of the capitalists. This is what
we must all be thinking of, if we wish labour to
have a chance, not of going to Chaffing Jack's, and
listening to silly songs. D'ye understand.?'

'Don't we!' said Caroline; 'and for my part, for a

70 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

summer eve, I prefer Mowbray moor to all the
Temples in the world, particularly if it's a sociable
party, and we have some good singing.'

This evening it was settled among the principal
champions of the cause of labour, among whom
Devilsdust was now included, that on the morrow
there should be a monster meeting on the moor, to
take into consideration the arrest of the delegate of
Mowbray. Such was the complete organisation of
this district, that by communicating with the various
lodges of the trades unions, fifty thousand persons,
or even double that number, could within four-and-
twenty hours, on a great occasion and on a favour-
able day, be brought into the field. The morrow
being a day of rest, was favourable, and the seizure
of their cherished delegate was a stimulating cause.
The excitement was great, the enthusiasm earnest and
deep. There was enough distress to make people
discontented, without depressing them. And Devils-
dust, after attending a council of the union, retired
to rest, and dreamed of strong speeches and spicy
resolutions, bands and banners, the cheers of assem-
bled thousands, and the eventual triumph of the
sacred rights.

The post of the next morning brought great and
stirring news to Mowbray. Gerard had undergone
his examination at Bow Street. It was a long and
laborious one; he was committed for trial, for a sedi-
tious conspiracy, but he was held to bail. The bail
demanded was heavy; but it was prepared, and in-
stantly proffered. His sureties were Morley and a
Mr. Hatton. By this post Morley wrote to his friends,
apprising them that both Gerard and himself in-
tended to leave London instantly, and that they

SYBIL

71

might be expected to arrive at Mowbray by the even-
ing train.

The monster meeting of the moor, it was in-
stantly resolved, should be converted into a trium-
phant procession, or rather be preceded by one.
Messengers on horseback were sent to all the neigh-
bouring towns to announce the great event. Every
artisan felt as a Moslem summoned by the sacred
standard. All went forth with their wives and
their children to hail the return of the patriot
and the martyr. The trades of Mowbray mus-
tered early in the morning, and in various pro-
cessions took possession of all the churches. Their
great pride was entirely to fill the church of Mr. St.
Lys, who, not daunted by their demonstration, and
seizing the offered opportunity, suppressed the ser-
mon with which he had supplied himself, and
preached to them an extemporary discourse on 'Fear
God and honour the King.' In the dissenting chapels,
thanksgivings were publicly offered that bail had been
accepted for Walter Gerard. After the evening service,
which the unions again attended, they formed in the
High Street, and lined it with their ranks and ban-
ners. Every half-hour a procession arrived from some
neighbouring town, with its music and streaming
flags. Each was received by Warner, or some other
member of the managing committee, who assigned
to them their appointed position, which they took up
without confusion, nor was the general order for a
moment disturbed. Sometimes a large party arrived
without music or banners, but singing psalms, and
headed by their minister; sometimes the children
walked together, the women following, then the men,
each with a ribbon of the same colour in his hat; al]

72 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

hurried, yet spontaneous and certain, indications how
mankind, under the influence of high and earnest
feelings, recur instantly to ceremony and form; how,
when the imagination is excited, it appeals to the
imagination, and requires for its expression something
beyond the routine of daily life.

It was arranged that, the moment the train ar-
rived and the presence of Gerard was ascertained, the
trade in position nearest to the station should com-
mence the Hymn of Labour, which was instantly to
be taken up by its neighbour, and so on in succes-
sion, so that by an almost electrical agency the whole
population should almost simultaneously be assured of
his arrival.

At half-past six o'clock the bell announced that
the train was in sight; a few minutes afterwards
Dandy Mick hurried up to the leader of the nearest
trade, spoke a few words, and instantly the signal
was given and the hymn commenced. It was taken
up as the steeples of a great city in the silence of
the night take up the new hour that has just arrived;
one by one, the mighty voices rose till they all
blended in one vast waving sea of sound. Warner
and some others welcomed Gerard and Morley, and
ushered them, totally unprepared for such a reception,
to an open carriage drawn by four white horses that
was awaiting them. Orders were given that there
was to be no cheering, no irregular clamour. The
hymn alone was heard. As the carriage passed each
trade, they followed and formed in procession behind
it; thus all had the opportunity of beholding their
chosen chief, and he the proud consolation of looking
on the multitude who thus enthusiastically recognised
the sovereignty of his services.

SYBIL

73

The interminable population, the mighty melody,
the incredible order, the simple yet awful solemnity,
this representation of the great cause to which she
was devoted, under an aspect that at once satisfied
the reason, captivated the imagination, and elevated
the heart; her admiration of her father, thus ratified
as it were by the sympathy of a nation, added to all
the recent passages of her life teeming with such
strange and trying interest, overcame Sybil. The tears
fell down her cheek as the carriage bore away her
father, while she remained under the care of one un-
known to the people of Mowbray, but who had ac-
companied her from London; this was Hatton.

The last Hght of the sun was shed over the moor
when Gerard reached it, and the Druids' altar, and its
surrounding crags, were burnished with its beam.

CHAPTER LVIII.

Hatton's Secret.

M

T WAS the night following the day
after the return of Gerard to Mow-
bray. Morley, who had lent to
him and Sybil his cottage in the
dale, was at the office of his
newspaper, the Mowbray Phalanx,
where he now resided. He was alone in his room writ-
ing, occasionally rising from his seat, and pacing the
chamber, when some one knocked at his door. Re-
ceiving a permission to come in, there entered Hat-
ton.

M fear I am disturbing an article?' said the guest.
*By no means; the day of labour is not at hand.
I am very pleased to see you.'

* My quarters are not inviting,' continued Hatton.
' It is remarkable what bad accommodation you find
in these great trading towns. I should have thought
that the mercantile traveller had been a comfortable
animal, not to say a luxurious; but I find everything
mean and third-rate. The wine execrable. So I
thought I would come and bestow my tediousness on
you. 'Tis hardly fair.'

* You could not have pleased me better. I was,
rather from distraction than from exigency, throwing

(74)

SYBIL

75

some thoughts on paper. But the voice of yesterday
still lingers in my ear.'
* What a spectacle! '

'Yes; you see what a multitude presents who
have recognised the predominance of moral power,'
said Morley. 'The spectacle was august; but the re-
sults to which such a public mind must lead are sub-
lime.'

' It must have been deeply gratifying to our friend,'
said Hatton.

*lt will support him in his career,' said Morley.

'And console him in his prison,' added Hatton.

'You think that it will come to that?' said Morley
enquiringly.

'It has that aspect; but appearances change.'

*What should change them?'

'Time and accident, which change everything.*

'Time will bring the York Assizes,' said Morley
musingly; 'and as for accident, I confess the future
seems to me dreary. What can happen for Gerard?'

'He might win his writ of right,' said Hatton de-
murely, stretching out his legs, and leaning back in
his chair. 'That also may be tried at the York As-
sizes.'

'His writ of right! I thought that was a feint, a
mere affair of tactics to keep the chance of the field.'

'I beheve the field may be won,' said Hatton very
composedly.

'Won!'

'Ay! the castle and manor of Mowbray, and half
the lordships round, to say nothing of this good town.
The people are prepared to be his subjects; he must
give up equality, and be content with being a popu-
lar sovereign.'

76 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'You jest, my friend.'

'Then I speak truth in jest; sometimes, you know,
the case.'

'What mean you?' said Morley, rising and ap-
proaching Hatton; 'for, though I have often observed
you like a biting phrase, you never speak idly. Tell
me what you mean.'

'I mean,' said Hatton, looking Morley earnestly in
the face, and speaking with great gravity, 'that the
documents are in existence which prove the title of
Walter Gerard to the proprietorship of this great dis-
trict; that I know where the documents are to be
found; and that it requires nothing but a resolution
equal to the occasion to secure them.'

'Should that be wanting?' said Morley.

'1 should think not,' said Hatton. 'It would belie
our nature to believe so.'

'And where are these documents?'

'In the muniment room of Mowbray Castle.'

'Hah!' exclaimed Morley in a prolonged tone.

'Kept closely by one who knows their value, for
they are the title-deeds not of his right but of his
confusion.'

'And how can we obtain them?'

'By means more honest than those they were ac-
quired by.'

'They are not obvious.'

'Two hundred thousand human beings yesterday
acknowledged the supremacy of Gerard,' said Hatton.
'Suppose they had known that within the walls of
Mowbray Castle were contained the proofs that Wal-
ter Gerard was the lawful possessor of the lands on
which they live; I say, suppose that had been the
case. Do you think they would have contented them-

SYBIL

77

selves with singing psalms? What would have be-
come of moral power then ? They would have taken
Mowbray Castle by storm; they would have sacked
and gutted it; they would have appointed a chosen
band to rifle the round tower; they would have taken
care that every document in it, especially an iron
chest, painted blue, and blazoned with the shield of
Valence, should have been delivered to you, to
me, to anyone that Gerard appointed for the office.
And what could be the remedy of the Earl de Mow-
bray? He could scarcely bring an action against the
hundred for the destruction of the castle, which we
would prove was not his own. And the most he
could do would be to transport some poor wretches
who had got drunk in his plundered cellars, and then
set fire to his golden saloons.'

*You amaze me,' said Morley, looking with an
astonished expression on the person who had just de-
livered himself of these suggestive details with the
same coolness and arid accuracy that he would have
entered into the details of a pedigree.

"Tis a practical view of the case,' remarked Mr.
Hatton.

Morley paced the chamber disturbed; Hatton re-
mained silent and watched him with a scrutinising
eye.

'Are you certain of your facts?' at length said
Morley, abruptly stopping.

'Quite so; Lord de Mowbray informed me of the
circumstances himself before 1 left London, and I came
down here in consequence.'

'You know him?'

'No one better.'

'And these documents, some of them, I suppose,'

78 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

said Morley with a cynical look, 'were once in your
own possession then?'

'Possibly. Would they were now! But it is a
great thing to know where they may be found.'

'Then they once were the property of Gerard?'

'Hardly that. They were gained by my own
pains, and often paid for with my own purse.
Claimed by no one, I parted with them to a person
to whom they were valuable. It is not merely to
serve Gerard that I want them now, though I would
willingly serve him. I have need of some of these
papers with respect to an ancient title, a claim to
which by a person in whom I am interested they
would substantiate. Now listen, good friend Morley;
moral force is a fine thing, especially in speculation,
and so is a community of goods, especially when a
man has no property, but when you have lived as
long as I have, and have tasted of the world's de-
lights, you'll comprehend the rapture of acquisition,
and learn that it is generally secured by very coarse
means. Come, 1 have a mind that you should prosper.
The public spirit is inflamed here; you are a leader of
the people. Let us have another meeting on the
moor, a preconcerted outbreak; you can put your
fingers in a trice on the men who will do our work.
Mowbray Castle is in their possession; we secure our
object. You shall have ten thousand pounds on the
nail, and 1 will take you back to London with me
besides, and teach you what is fortune.'

'I understand you,' said Morley. 'You have a
clear brain and a bold spirit; you have no scruples,
which indeed are generally the creatures of perplexity
rather than of principle. You ought to succeed.'

'We ought to succeed, you mean,' said Hatton,

SYBIL

79

*for I have long perceived that you only wanted op-
portunity to mount.'

'Yesterday was a great burst of feeling occasioned
by a very peculiar cause,' said Morley musingly; *but
it must not mislead us. The discontent here is not
deep. The people are still employed, though not
fully. Wages have fallen, but they must drop more.
The people are not ripe for the movement you in-
timate. There are thousands who would rush to the
rescue of the castle. Besides there is a priest here,
one St. Lys, who exercises a most pernicious influence
over the people. It will require immense efforts and
great distress to root him out. No; it would fail.'

'Then we must wait awhile,' said Hatton, 'or de-
vise some other means.'

"Tis a very impracticable case,' said Morley.

'There is a combination for every case,' said Hat-
ton. 'Ponder and it comes. This seemed simple;
but you think, you really think it would not an-
swer ? '

'At this moment, not; that is my conviction.'

'Well, suppose instead of an insurrection we have
a burglary. Can you assist me to the right hands
here ? '

'Not I indeed!'

'What is the use, then, of this influence over the
people of which you and Gerard are always talking?
After yesterday, I thought you could do anything
here.'

'We have not hitherto had the advantage of your
worldly knowledge; in future we shall be wiser.'

'Well then,' said Hatton, 'we must now think of
Gerard's defence. He shall have the best counsel. I
shall retain Kelly specially. I shall return to town to-

8o BENJAMIN DISRAELI

morrow morning. You will keep me alive to the
state of feeling here, and if things get more mature,
drop me a line and I will come down.'

' This conversation had better not be mentioned to
Gerard.'

'That is obvious; it would only disturb him. I
did not preface it by a stipulation of confidence, be-
cause that is idle. Of course you will keep the
secret; it is your interest; it is a great possession. I
know very well you will be most jealous of sharing
it. I know it is as safe with you as with myself.'

And with these words Hatton wished him a hearty
farewell and withdrew.

'He is right,' thought Morley; 'he knows human
nature well. The secret is safe. I will not breathe
it to Gerard. I will treasure it up. It is knowledge;
it is power: great knowledge, great power. And
what shall I do with it ? Time will teach me.'

CHAPTER LIX.

A Discussion in Downing Street.

I NOTHER week,' exclaimed a gen-
% tleman in Downing Street on the
^ 5th of August, 1842, * and we shall
be prorogued. You can surely
vJ7 keep the country quiet for another
^ week.'

' I cannot answer for the public peace for another
four-and-twenty hours,' replied his companion.

'This business at Manchester must be stopped at
once; you have a good force there?'

'Manchester is nothing; these are movements
merely to distract. The serious work is not now to
be apprehended in the cotton towns. The state of
Staffordshire and Warwickshire is infinitely more
menacing. Cheshire and Yorkshire alarm me. The
accounts from Scotland are as bad as can be. And
though 1 think the sufferings of '39 will keep Bir-
mingham and the Welsh collieries in check, we can-
not venture to move any of our force from those
districts.'

'You must summon a council for four o'clock. I
have some deputations to receive, which I will throw
over; but to Windsor 1 must go. Nothing has yet

15 B. D.— 6 (81 )

82 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

occurred to render any notice of the state of the coun-
try necessary in the speech from the throne.'

*Not yet,' said his companion; 'but what will to-
morrow bring forth ? '

* After all it is only a turn-out. I cannot recast
her Majesty's speech and bring in rebellion and closed
mills, instead of loyalty and a good harvest.'

'It would be a bore. Well, we will see to-mor-
row;' and the colleague left the room.

'And now for these deputations,' said the gentle-
man in Downing Street; 'of all things in the world
I dislike a deputation. I do not care how much I
labour in the closet or the House; that's real work;
the machine is advanced. But receiving a deputation
is like sham marching: an immense dust and no
progress. To listen to their views! As if I did not
know what their views were before they stated them !
And to put on a countenance of respectful candour
while they are developing their exploded or their im-
practicable systems! Were it not that, at a practised
crisis, I permit them to see conviction slowly stealing
over my conscience, I beheve the fellows would
never stop. I cannot really receive these deputations.
I must leave them to Hoaxem,' and the gentleman in
Downing Street rang his bell.

'Well, Mr. Hoaxem,' resumed the gentleman in
Downing Street, as that faithful functionary entered,
'there are some deputations, I understand, to-day.
You must receive them, as I am going to Windsor.
What are they.?'

'There are only two, sir, of moment. The rest I
could easily manage.'

'And these two.?'

* In the first place, there is our friend Colonel Bosky,

SYBIL

83

the members for the county of Calfshire, and a depu-
tation of tenant farmers.'
'Pah!'

' These must be attended to. The members have
made a strong representation to me, that they really
cannot any longer vote with government unless the
Treasury assists them in satisfying their constituents.'

'And what do they want?'

'Statement of grievances; high taxes and low
prices; mild expostulations and gentle hints that they
have been thrown over by their friends; Polish corn,
Holstein cattle, and British income-tax.'

'Well, you know what to say,' said the gentle-
man in Downing Street. ' Tell them generally that
they are quite mistaken; prove to them particularly
that my only object has been to render protection
more protective by making it practical, and divesting
it of the surplusage of odium; that no foreign corn
can come in at fifty-five shillings; that there are not
enough cattle in all Holstein to supply the parish of
Pancras daily with beefsteaks; and that as for the in-
come-tax, they will be amply compensated for it by
their diminished cost of living through the agency of
that very tariff of which they are so superficially com-
plaining.'

'Their diminished cost of living! ' said Mr. Hoaxem,
a little confused. 'Would not that assurance, I hum-
bly suggest, clash a little with my previous demon-
stration that we had arranged that no reduction of
prices should take place?'

'Not at all; your previous demonstration is of
course true, but at the same time you must impress
upon them the necessity of general views to form an
opinion of particular instances. As for example, a

84 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

gentleman of five thousand pounds per annum pays
to the income-tax, — which by-the-bye always call
property-tax, — one hundred and fifty pounds a year.
Well, I have materially reduced the duties on eight
hundred articles. The consumption of each of those
articles by an establishment of five thousand pounds
per annum cannot be less than one pound per
article. The reduction of price cannot be less than a
moiety; therefore a saving of four hundred per annum,
which, placed against the deduction of the property-
tax, leaves a clear increase of income of two hundred
and fifty pounds per annum; by which you see that
a property-tax, in fact, increases income.'

'\ see,' said Mr. Hoaxem, with an admiring glance.
'And what am I to say to the deputation of the
manufacturers of Mowbray, complaining of the great
depression of trade, and the total want of remuner-
ating profits?'

'You must say exactly the reverse,' said the gen-
tleman in Downing Street. 'Show them how much
I have done to promote the revival of trade. First of
all, in making provisions cheaper; cutting off at one
blow half the protection on corn, as, for example, at
this moment under the old law the duty on foreign
wheat would have been twenty-seven shillings a
quarter; under the new law it is thirteen. To be
sure, no wheat could come in at either price, but that
does not alter the principle. Then, as to live cattle,
show how I have entirely opened the trade with the
Continent in live cattle. Enlarge upon this; the sub-
ject is speculative and admits of expansive estimates.
If there be any dissenters on the deputation, who,
having freed the negroes, have no subject left for their
foreign sympathies, hint at the tortures of the bull-

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85

fight and the immense consideration to humanity, that,
instead of being speared at Seville, the Andalusian
toro will probably in future be cut up at Smithfield.
This cheapness of provisions will permit them to com-
pete with the foreigner in all neutral markets, in time
beat them in their own. It is a complete compensa-
tion too for the property-tax, which, impress upon
them, is a great experiment and entirely for their in-
terests. Ring the changes on great measures and
great experiments till it is time to go down and make
a House. Your official duties, of course, must not be
interfered with. They will take the hint. I have no
doubt you will get through the business very well,
Mr. Hoaxem, particularly if you be ''frank and ex-
plicit;" that is the right line to take when you wish
to conceal your own mind and to confuse the minds
of others. Good morning!'

CHAPTER LX.

Strenuous Measures.

WO days after this conversation in
Downing Street, a special messen-
ger arrived at Marney Abbey from
the Lord Lieutenant of the county,
the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine. Im-
mediately after reading the despatch
of which he was the bearer, there was a great bustle
in the house; Lady Marney was sent for to her hus-
band's library, and there enjoined immediately to write
various letters, which were to prevent certain ex-
pected visitors from arriving; Captain Grouse was in
and out of the same library every five minutes, re-
ceiving orders and counter-orders, and finally mount-
ing his horse was flying about the neighbourhood
with messages and commands. All this stir signified
that the Marney regiment of yeomanry were to be
called out directly.

Lord Marney, who had succeeded in obtaining a.
place in the Household, and was consequently devoted
to the institutions of the country, was full of determi-
nation to uphold them; but at the same time, with
characteristic prudence, was equally resolved that the
property principally protected should be his own, and

(86)

SYBIL

87

that the order of his own district should chiefly en-
gage his solicitude.

*I do not know what the Duke means by march-
ing into the disturbed districts,' said Lord Marney to
Captain Grouse. ' These are disturbed districts. There
have been three fires in one week, and I want to
know what disturbance can be worse than that? In
my opinion this is a mere anti-corn-law riot to frighten
the government; and suppose they do stop the mills,
what then? I wish they were all stopped, and then
one might live hke a gentleman again.'

Egremont, between whom and his brother a sort of
bad-tempered good understanding had of late years to
a certain degree flourished, in spite of Lord Marney
remaining childless, which made him hate Egremont
with double-distilled virulence, and chiefly by the
affectionate manoeuvres of their mother, but whose
annual visits to Marney had generally been limited to
the yeomanry week, arrived from London the same
day as the letter of the Lord Lieutenant, as he had
learnt that his brother's regiment, in which he com-
manded a troop, as well as the other yeomanry corps
in the north of England, must immediately take the
field.

Five years had elapsed since the commencement
of our history, and they had brought apparently much
change to the character of the brother of Lord Mar-
ney. He had become, especially during the last two
or three years, silent and reserved; he rarely entered
society; even the company of those who were once
his intimates had ceased to attract him ; he was really
a melancholy man. The change in his demeanour was
observed by all; his mother and his sister-in-law
were the only persons who endeavoured to penetrate

88 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

its cause, and sighed over the failure of their sagacity.
Quit the world and the world forgets you; and Egre-
mont would have soon been a name no longer men-
tioned in those brilliant saloons which he once
adorned, had not occasionally a sensation, produced
by an effective speech in the House of Commons,
recalled his name to his old associates, who then re-
membered the pleasant hours passed in his society,
and wondered why he never went anywhere now.

*I suppose he finds society a bore,' said Lord
Eugene de Vere; 'I am sure I do: but then, what is
a fellow to do ? I am not in Parliament, like Egre-
mont. I believe, after all, that's the thing; for I have
tried everything else, and everything else is a bore.'

' I think one should marry, hke Alfred Mount-
chesney,' said Lord Milford.

' But what is the use of marrying if you do not
marry a rich woman ? and the heiresses of the present
age will not marry. What can be more unnatural ?
It alone ought to produce a revolution. Why, Alfred
is the only fellow who has made a coup; and then
he has not got it down.'

' She behaved in a most unprincipled manner to
me, that Fitz-Warene,' said Lord Milford, 'always
took my bouquets and once made me write some
verses.'

'By Jove!' said Lord Eugene, 'I should like to
see them. What a bore it must have been to write
verses ! '

*I only copied them out of ?vlina Blake's album:
but I sent them in my own handwriting.'

Baffled sympathy was the cause of Egremont's
gloom. It is the secret spring of most melancholy.
He loved and loved in vain. The conviction that his

SYBIL

89

passion, though hopeless, was not looked upon with
disfavour, only made him the more wretched, for the
disappointment is more acute in proportion as the
chance is better. He had never seen Sybil since
the morning he quitted her in Smith Square, im-
mediately before her departure for the north. The
trial of Gerard had taken place at the assizes of that
year: he had been found guilty, and sentenced to
eighteen months' imprisonment in York Castle; the
interference of Egremont, both in the House of Com-
mons and with the government, saved him from the
felon confinement with which he was at first threat-
ened, and from which assuredly state prisoners should
be exempt. During this effort some correspondence
had taken place between Egremont and Sybil, which
he would willingly have encouraged and maintained;
but it ceased nevertheless with its subject. Sybil,
through the influential interference of Ursula Trafford,
lived at the convent at York during the imprisonment
of her father, and visited him daily.

The anxiety to take the veil which had once
characterised Sybil had certainly waned. Perhaps her
experience of hfe had impressed her with the impor-
tance of fulfilling vital duties. Her father, though he
had never opposed her wish, had never encouraged
it; and he had now increased and interesting claims
on her devotion. He had endured great trials, and
had fallen on adverse fortunes. Sybil would look at
him, and though his noble frame was still erect and
his countenance still displayed that mixture of frank-
ness and decision which had distinguished it of
yore, she could not conceal from herself that there
were ravages which time could not have produced.
A year and a half of imprisonment had shaken to its

90

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

centre a frame born for action, and shrinking at all
times from the resources of sedentary life. The dis-
appointment of high hopes had jarred and tangled
even the sweetness of his noble disposition. He
needed solicitude and solace: and Sybil resolved that
if vigilance and sympathy could soothe an existence
that would otherwise be embittered, these guardian
angels should at least hover over the life of her father.

When the term of his imprisonment had ceased,
Gerard had returned with his daughter to Mowbray.
Had he deigned to accept the offers of his friends,
he need not have been anxious as to his future. A
public subscription for his service had been collected:
Morley, who was well to do in the world, for the
circulation of the Mowbray Phalanx daily increased
with the increasing sufferings of the people, offered
his friend to share his house and purse: Hatton was
munificent; there was no limit either to his offers or
his proffered services. But all were declined; Gerard
would live by labour. The post he had occupied
at Mr. Trafiford's was not vacant, even if that gentle-
man had thought fit again to receive him; but his
reputation as a first-rate artisan soon obtained him
good employment, though on this occasion in the
town of Mowbray, which for the sake of his daughter
he regretted. He had no pleasant home now for
Sybil, but he had the prospect of one, and until he
obtained possession of it, Sybil sought a refuge,
which had been offered to her from the first, with
her kindest and dearest friend; so that, at this period
of our history, she was again an inmate of the con-
vent at Mowbray, whither her father and Morley had
attended her the eve of the day she had first visited
the ruins of Marney Abbey.

CHAPTER LXI.

Exciting News.

HAVE seen a many things in my
time, Mrs. Trotman,' said Chalfmg
Jack, as he took the pipe from
^ his mouth in the silent bar-room
^ of the Cat and Fiddle; 'but I
never see any like this. I think I

ought to know Mowbray if anyone does, for, man
and boy, I have breathed this air for a matter of half
a century. I sucked it in when it tasted of prim-
roses, and this tavern was a cottage covered with
honeysuckle in the middle of green fields, where the
lads camie and drank milk from the cow with their
lasses; and I have inhaled what they call the noxious
atmosphere, when a hundred chimneys have been
smoking like one; and always found myself pretty
well. Nothing like business to give one an appetite.
But when shall I feel peckish again, Mrs. Trotman.?'

'The longest lane has a turning, they say, Mr.
Trotman.'

'Never knew anything like this before,' repHed her
husband, 'and I have seen bad times: but I always
used to say, "Mark my words, friends, Mowbray
will rally." My words carried weight, Mrs. Trotman,
in this quarter, as they naturally should, coming from

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92

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

a man of my experience, especially when I gave tick.
Every man I chalked up was of the same opinion as
the landlord of the Cat and Fiddle, and always thought
that Mowbray would rally. That's the killing feature
of these times, Mrs. Trotman, there's no rallying in
the place.'

'\ begin to think it's the machines,' said Mrs.
Trotman.

'Nonsense,' said Mr. Trotman; 'it's the corn laws.
The town of Mowbray ought to clothe the world
with our resources. Why, Shuffle and Screw can
turn out forty mile of calico per day; but where's
the returns ? That's the point. As the American gen-
tleman said, who left his bill unpaid, "Take my
breadstuffs and I'll give you a cheque at sight on
the Pennsylvanian Bank."'

Mt's very true,' said Mrs. Trotman. 'Who's there?'

'Nothing in my way?' said a woman with a
basket of black cherries, with a pair of tin scales
thrown upon their top.

'Ah! Mrs. Carey,' said Chaffing Jack, 'is that
you ?'

' My mortal self, Mr. Trotman, tho' I be sure I
feel more like a ghost than flesh and blood.'

'You may well say that, Mrs. Carey; you and I
have known Mowbray as long, I should think, as
any in this quarter '

'And never see such times as these, Mr. Trotman,
nor the like of such. But I always thought it would
come to this, everything turned topsy-turvy, as it
were, the children getting all the wages, and decent
folk turned adrift to pick up a living as they could.
It's something of a judgment, in my mind, Mr. Trot-
man.'

SYBIL

93

' It's the trade leaving the country, widow, and
no mistake.'

'And how shall we bring it back again?' said the
widow; 'the police ought to interfere.'

'We must have cheap bread,' said Mr. Trotman.

'So they tell me,' said the widow; 'but whether
bread be cheap or dear don't much signify, if we
have nothing to buy it with. You don't want any-
thing in my way, neighbour.? It's not very tempting,
I fear,' said the good widow in a rather mournful
tone; 'but a little fresh fruit cools the mouth in this sul-
try time, and at any rate it takes me into the world.
It seems hke business, tho' very hard to turn a penny
by; but one's neighbours are very kind, and a little
chat about the dreadful times always puts me in spirits.'

'Well, we will take a pound for the sake of trade,
widow,' said Mrs. Trotman.

'And here's a glass of gin-and-water, widow,'
said Mr. Trotman, ' and when Mowbray rallies you
shall come and pay for it.'

'Thank you both very kindly,' said the widow,
'a good neighbour, as our minister says, is the pool
of Bethesda; and as you say, Mowbray will rally.'

'I never said so,' exclaimed Chaffmg Jack, inter-
rupting her. 'Don't go about for to say that I said
Mowbray would rally. My words have some weight
in this quarter, widow. Mowbray rally! Why should
it rally? Where's the elements?'

'Where indeed ?' said Devilsdust, as he entered the
Cat and Fiddle with Dandy Mick, 'there is not the
spirit of a louse in Mowbray.'

'That's a true bill,' said Mick.

'Is there another white-livered town in the whole
realm where the operatives are all working half-time,

94 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

and thanking the capitalists for keeping the mills go-
ing, and only starving them by inches?' said Devils-
dust, in a tone of scorn.

'That's your time of day,' said Mick.

'Very glad to see you, gentlemen,' said Mr. Trot-
man, 'pray be seated. There's a little backy left yet
in Mowbray, and a glass of twist at your service.'

'Nothing excisable for me,' said Devilsdust.

'Well, it ayn't exactly the right ticket, Mrs. Trot-
man, I believe,' said Mick, bowing gallantly to the
lady; 'but 'pon my soul I am so thirsty that I'll
take Chaffmg Jack at his word;' and so saying, Mick
and Devilsdust ensconced themselves in the bar,
while goodhearted Mrs. Carey sipped her glass of
gin-and-water, which she frequently protested was a
pool of Bethesda.

' Well, Jack,' said Devilsdust, ' 1 suppose you have
heard the news ?'

' If it be anything that has happened at Mowbray,
especially in this quarter, 1 should think I had. Times
must be very bad indeed that some one does not
drop in to tell me anything that has happened, and
to ask my advice.'

' It's nothing to do with Mowbray.'

'Thank you kindly, Mrs. Trotman,' said Mick,
'and here's your very good health.'

' Then I am in the dark,' said Chaffmg Jack, re-
plying to the previous observation of Devilsdust, 'for
I never see a newspaper now except a week old,
and that lent by a friend, — 1 who used to take my
Sun regular, to say nothing of the Dispatch, and
Bell's Life. Times is changed, Mr. Radley.'

' You speak like a book, Mr. Trotman,' said Mick,
' and here's your very good health. But as for news-

SYBIL

95

papers, I'm all in the dark myself, for the Literary
and Scientific is shut up, and no subscribers left, ex-
cept the honorary ones, and not a journal to be had
except the Moral World, and that's gratis.'

*As bad as the Temple,' said Chaffing Jack, Mt's
all up with the institutions of the country. And what,
then, is the news.?'

'Labour is triumphant in Lancashire,' said Devils-
dust, with bitter solemnity.

* The deuce it is,' said ChaiTing Jack. * What,
have they raised wages ? '

* No,' said Devilsdust, ' but they have stopped the
mills.'

'That won't mend matters much,' said Jack with
a puff.

'Won't it.?'

'The working-classes will have less to spend than
ever.'

'And what will the capitalists have to spend?'
said Devilsdust.

'Worse and worse,' said Mr. Trotman, 'you will
never get institutions hke the Temple re-opened on
this system.'

' Don't you be afraid, Jack/ said Mick, tossing off
his tumbler; 'if we only get our rights, won't we
have a blow-out !'

'We must have a struggle,' said Devilsdust, 'and
teach the capitalists on whom they depend, so that
in future they are not to have the lion's share, and
then all will be right.'

'A fair day's wage for a fair day's work/ said
Mick; 'that's your time of day.'

'It began at Staleybridge,' said Devilsdust, 'and
they have stopped them all; and now they have

96 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

marched into Manchester ten thousand strong. They
pelted the police '

'And cheered the red-coats like fun,' said Mick.

'The soldiers will fraternise,' said Devilsdust.

'Do what?' said Mrs. Trotman.

'Stick their bayonets into the capitalists, who
have hired them to cut the throats of the working-
classes,' said Devilsdust.

'The Queen is with us,' said Mick. 'It's well
known she sets her face against gals working in mills
like blazes.'

'Well, this is news/ said Mrs. Carey. 'I always
thought some good would come of having a woman
on the throne; ' and repeating her thanks and pinning
on her shawl, the widow retired, eager to circulate
the intelligence.

'And now that we are alone,' said Devilsdust, 'the
question is, what are we to do here; and we came
to consult you, Jack, as you know Mowbray better
than any living man. This thing will spread. It
won't stop short. I have had a bird, too, singing
something in my ear these two days past. If they
do not stop it in Lancashire, and I defy them, there
will be a general rising.'

'I have seen a many things in my time,' said Mr.
Trotman; 'some risings and some strikes, and as
stiff turn-outs as may be. But to my fancy there is
nothing like a strike in prosperous times; there's more
money spent under those circumstances than you can
well suppose, young gentlemen. It's as good as
Mowbray Staty any day.'

'But now to the point,' said Devilsdust. 'The
people are regularly sold; they want a leader.'

'Why, there's Gerard,' said Chaffing Jack; 'never

SYBIL

97

been a better man in my time. And Warner, the
greatest man the handlooms ever turned out.'

'Ay, ay,' said Devilsdust; 'but they have each of
them had a year and a half, and that cools blood.'

'Besides,' said Mick, 'they are too old; and Ste-
phen Morley has got round them, preaching moral
force, and all that sort of gammon.'

'I never heard that moral force won the battle of
Waterloo,' said Devilsdust. 'I wish the capitalists
would try moral force a little, and see whether it
would keep the thing going. If the capitalists will
give up their red-coats, I would be a moral force man
to-morrow.'

•And the new police,' said Mick. 'A pretty go,
when a fellow in a blue coat fetches you the Devil's
own con on your head, and you get moral force for
a plaster.'

'Why, that's all very well,' said Chafifmg Jack;
'but I am against violence; at least, much. I don't
object to a moderate riot, provided it is not in my
quarter of the town.'

'Well, that's not the ticket now,' said Mick. 'We
don't want no violence; all we want is to stop all the
mills and hands in the kingdom, and have a regular
national hoHday for six weeks at least.'

'I have seen a many things in my time,' said
Chaffmg Jack solemnly, 'but I have always observed,
that if the people had worked generally for half-time
for a week, they would stand anything.'

'That's a true bill,' said Mick.

'Their spirit is broken,' said ChafFmg Jack, 'or
else they never would have let the Temple have been
shut up.'

'And think of our Institute, without a single sub-

15 B. D.-7

98 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

scriber!' said Mick. 'The gals is the only thing
what has any spirit left. Julia told me just now she
would go to the cannon's mouth for the Five Points
any summer day.'

'You think the spirit can't be raised, Chalfmg
Jack ? ' said Devilsdust seriously. ' You ought to be a
judge.'

' If I don't know Mowbray, who does ? Trust my
word, the house won't draw.'
'Then it is U-P,' said Mick.

' Hush ! ' said Devilsdust. ' But suppose it spreads ?'

'It won't spread,' said Chaffing Jack. 'I've seen
a deal of these things. I fancy from what you say
it's a cotton squall. It will pass, sir. Let me see the
miners out, and then I will talk to you.'

'Stranger things than that have happened,' said
Devilsdust.

'Then things get serious,' said Chaffing Jack.
'Them miners is very stubborn, and when they gets
excited ayn't it a bear at play, that's all?'

'Well,' said Devilsdust, 'what you say is well
worth attention; but all the same I feel we are on the
eve of a regular crisis.'

'No, by jingo!' said Mick, and, tossing his cap
into the air, he snapped his fingers with delight at
the anticipated amusement.

CHAPTER LXII.

The Beautiful Singer.

DON'T think I can stand this much
longer,' said Mr. Mountchesney, the
son-in-law of Lord de Mowbray,
to his wife, as he stood before
the empty fire-place with his back
to the mantelpiece and his hands
thrust into the pockets of his coat. 'TJiis living in
the country in August bores me to extinction. I
think we will go to Baden, Joan.'

*But papa is so anxious, dearest Alfred, that we
should remain here at present and see the neighbours
a little.'

' I might be induced to remain here to please your
father, but as for your neighbours I have seen quite
enough of them. They are not a sort of people that
I ever met before, or that 1 wish to meet again. I
do not know what to say to them, nor can I annex
an idea to what they say to me. Heigho! certainly
the country in August is a thing of which no one
who has not tried it has the most remote conception.'

* But you always used to say you doted on the
country, Alfred,' said Lady Joan in a tone of tender
reproach.

(99)

loo BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'So I do; I never was happier than when I was at
Melton, and even enjoyed the country in August
when I was on the moors.'

'But I cannot well go to Melton,' said Lady Joan.

*I don't see why you can't. Mrs. Shelldrake
goes with her husband to Melton, and so does Lady
Di with Barham; and a very pleasant life it is.'

'Well, at any rate we cannot go to Melton now,'
said Lady Joan, mortified; 'and it is impossible for
me to go to the moors.'

'No, but I could go,' said Mr. Mountchesney, 'and
leave you here. I might have gone with Eugene de
Vere and Milford and Fitz-Heron. They wanted me
very much. What a capital party it would have
been, and what capital sport we should have had!
And I need not have been away for more than a
month, or perhaps six weeks, and 1 could have
written to you every day, and all that sort of
thing.'

Lady Joan sighed and affected to recur to the
opened volume which, during this conversation, she
had held in her hand.

'I wonder where Maud is,' said Mr. Mountches-
ney; 'I shall want her to ride with me to-day. She is
a capital horsewoman, and always amuses me. As
you cannot ride now, Joan, I wish you would let
Maud have Sunbeam.'

'As you please.'

'Well, I am going to the stables and will tell
them. Who is this.^' Mr. Mountchesney exclaimed,
and then walked to the window that, looking over
the park, showed at a distance the advance of a
showy equipage.

Lady Joan looked up.

SYBIL

101

'Come here, Joan, and tell me who this is;' and
Lady Joan was at his side in a moment.

'It is the livery of the Bardolfs,' said Lady Joan.

M always call them Firebrace: I cannot get out of
it,' said Mr. Mountchesney. 'Well, I am glad it is
they; I thought it might be an irruption of barbarians.
Lady Bardolf will bring us some news.'

Lord and Lady Bardolf were not alone; they were
accompanied by a gentleman who had been staying
on a visit at Firebrace, and who, being acquainted
with Lord de Mowbray, had paid his respects to the
castle on his way to London. This gentleman was
the individual who had elevated them to the peerage,
Mr. Hatton. A considerable intimacy had sprung up
between him and his successful clients. Firebrace
was an old place rebuilt in the times of the Tudors,
but with something of its more ancient portions re-
maining, and with a storehouse of muniments that
had escaped the civil wars. Hatton revelled in them,
and in pursuing his researches had already made dis-
coveries which might perhaps place the coronet of
the earldom of Lovel on the brow of the former
champion of the baronetage, who now, however, never
mentioned the order. Lord de Mowbray was well
content to see Mr. Hatton, a gentleman in whom he
did not repose the less confidence because his advice
given him three years ago, respecting the writ of
right and the claim upon his estate, had proved so
discreet and correct. Acting on that advice, Lord de
Mowbray had instructed his lawyers to appear to the
action without entering into any unnecessary explana-
tion of the merits of his case. He counted on the
accuracy of Mr. Hatton's judgment, that the claim
would not be pursued; and he was right: after some

102 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

fencing and preliminary manoeuvring, the claim had
not been pursued. Lord de Mowbray therefore, al-
ways gracious, was disposed to accord a very distin-
guished reception to his confidential counsellor. He
pressed very much his guests to remain with him
some days, and, though that was not practicable, Mr.
Hatton promised that he would not leave the neigh-
bourhood without paying another visit to the castle.

'And you continue quiet here?' said Mr. Hatton
to Lord de Mowbray.

'And I am told we shall keep so,' said Lord de
Mowbray. ' The mills are mostly at work, and the
men take the reduced wages in a good spirit. The
fact is, our agitators in this neighbourhood suffered
pretty smartly in '39, and the Chartists have lost their
influence.'

'I am sorry for poor Lady St. Julians,' said Lady
Bardolf to Lady de Mowbray. *lt must be such a
disappointment, and she has had so many; but I un-
derstand there is nobody to blame but herself. If she
had only left the Prince alone; but she would not be
quiet.'

'And where are the Deloraines .?*'

'They are at Munich; with which they are de-
lighted. And Lady Deloraine writes me that Mr.
Egremont has promised to join them there. If he do,
they mean to winter at Rome.'

'Somebody said he was going to be married,' said
Lady de Mowbray.

'His mother wishes him to marry,' said Lady Bar-
dolf; 'but I have heard nothing.'

Mr. Mountchesney came in and greeted the Bar-
dolfs with some warmth. ' How delightful in the
country in August to meet somebody that you have

SYBIL

seen in London in June!' he exclaimed. 'Now, dear
Lady Bardolf, do tell me something, for you can con-
ceive nothing so triste as we are here. We never
get a letter. Joan only corresponds with philosophers,
and Maud with clergymen; and none of my friends
ever write to me.'

'Perhaps you never write to them?'

'Well, 1 never have been a letter-writer, because
really 1 never wanted to write or be written to. I al-
ways knew what was going on because I was on the
spot. I was doing the things that people were writ-
ing letters about; but now, not being in the world
any longer, doing nothing, living in the country, and
the country in August, 1 should like to receive letters
every day, but 1 do not know whom to fix upon as
a correspondent. Eugene de Vere will not write,
Milford cannot; and as for Fitz-Heron, he is so very
selfish, he always wants his letters answered.*

'That is unreasonable,' said Lady Bardolf.

'Besides, what can they tell me at this moment?
They have gone to the moors and are enjoying them-
selves. They asked me to go with them, but I could
not go, because you see I could not leave Joan; though
why 1 could not leave her, I really cannot understand,
because Egerton has got some moors this year, and
he leaves Lady Augusta with her father.'

Lady Maud entered the room in her bonnet, re-
turning from an airing. She was all animation,
charmed to see everybody; she had been to Mowbray
to hear some singing at the Roman Cathohc chapel in
that town; a service had been performed and a col-
lection made for the suffering workpeople of the
place. She had been apprised of it for some days,
was told that she would hear the most beautiful voice

I04 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

that she had ever listened to, but it had far exceeded
her expectations. A female voice it seemed; no tones
could be conceived more tender and yet more thrill-
ing: in short, seraphic.

Mr. Mountchesney blamed her for not taking him.
He liked music, singing, especially female singing;
when there was so little to amuse him, he was sur-
prised that Lady Maud had not been careful that he
should have been present. His sister-in-law reminded
him that she had particularly requested him to drive
her over to Mowbray, and he had declined the honour
as a bore.

'Yes,' said Mr. Mountchesney, 'but I thought
Joan was going with you, and that you would be
shopping.'

' It was a good thing our House was adjourned
before these disturbances in Lancashire,' said Lord
Bardolf to Lord de Mowbray.

'The best thing we can all do is to be on our
estates, I beheve,' said Lord de Mowbray.

' My neighbour Marney is in a state of great ex-
citement,' said Lord Bardolf; 'all his yeomanry out.'

' But he is quiet at Marney } '

'In away; but these fires puzzle us. Marney will
not beheve that the condition of the labourer has any-
thing to do with them; and he certainly is a very
acute man. But still I don't know what to say to
it. The Poor-Law is very unpopular in my parish.
Marney will have it that the incendiaries are all
strangers, hired by the Anti-Corn-Law League.'

'Ah! here is Lady Joan,' exclaimed Lady Bardolf,
as the wife of Mr. Mountchesney entered the room.
'My dearest Lady Joan!'

'Why, Joan,' said Mr. Mountchesney, 'Maud has

SYBIL

105

been to Mowbray, and heard the most delicious sing-
ing. Why did we not go?'

*I did mention it to you, Alfred.'

* I remember you said something about going to
Mowbray, and that you wanted to go to several
places. But there is nothing I hate so much as shop-
ping. It bores me more than anything. And you are
so peculiarly long when you are shopping. But sing-
ing, and beautiful singing in a Catholic chapel by a
woman, perhaps a beautiful woman, that is quite a
different thing; and I should have been amused, which
nobody seems ever to think of here. I do not know
how you find it, Lady Bardolf, but the country to me

in August is a something ' and not finishing his

sentence, Mr. Mountchesney gave a look of inexpress-
ible despair.

'And you did not see this singer.^' said Mr.
Hatton, sidling up to Lady Maud, and speaking in a
subdued tone.

'I did not, but they tell me she is most beautiful;
something extraordinary; I tried to see her; but it
was impossible.'

Ms she a professional singer?'

M should imagine not; a daughter of one of the
Mowbray people, I believe.'

' Let us have her over to the castle, Lady de
Mowbray,' said Mr. Mountchesney.

*If you like,' repHed Lady de Mowbray, with a
languid smile.

'Well, at last I have got something to do,' said
Mr. Mountchesney. 'I will ride over to Mowbray,
find out the beautiful singer, and bring her to the
castle.'

CHAPTER LXIII.

Visions of Youth.

HE beam of the declining sun, soft-
ened by the stained panes of a
small gothic window, suffused the
chamber of the Lady Superior of
the convent of Mowbray. The
vaulted room, of moderate dimen-
sions, was furnished with great simplicity, and opened
into a small oratory. On a table were several volumes,
an ebon cross was fixed in a niche, and, leaning in
a high-backed chair, sat Ursula Trafford. Her pale
and refined complexion, that in her youth had been
distinguished for its lustre, became her spiritual office;
and indeed her whole countenance, the delicate brow,
the serene glance, the small aquiline nose, and the
well-shaped mouth, firm and yet benignant, be-
tokened the celestial soul that inhabited that gracious
frame.

The Lady Superior was not alone; on a low seat
by her side, holding her hand, and looking up into
her face with a glance of reverential sympathy, was
a maiden, over whose head five summers have re-
volved since first her girlhood broke upon our sight
amid the ruins of Marney Abbey; five summers that

(!06)

SYBIL

107

have realised the matchless promise of her charms,
and, while they have added something to her stature,
have robbed it of nothing of its grace, and have
rather steadied the blaze of her beauty than diminished
its radiance.

'Yes, I mourn over them,' said Sybil, 'the deep
convictions that made me look forward to the cloister
as my home. Is it that the world has assoiled my
soul? Yet I have not tasted of worldly joys: all that
I have known of it has been suffering and tears.
They will return, these visions of my sacred youth:
dear friend, tell me that they will return!'

'I too have had visions in my youth, Sybil, and
not of the cloister, yet am I here.'

'And what should I infer?' said Sybil, inquiringly.

'That my visions were of the world, and brought
me to the cloister, and that yours were of the clois-
ter, and have brought you to the world.'

'My heart is sad,' said Sybil; 'and the sad should
seek the shade.'

'It is troubled, my child, rather than sorrowful.'

Sybil shook her head.

'Yes, my child,' said Ursula, 'the world has taught
you that there are affections which the cloister can
neither satisfy nor supply. Ah! Sybil, I too have
loved.'

The blood rose to the cheek of Sybil, and then re-
turned as quickly to the heart; her trembling hand
pressed that of Ursula as she sighed, and murmured,
'No, no, no.'

'Yes, it is the spirit that hovers over your life,
Sybil; and in vain you would forget what haunts
your heart. One not less gifted than he, as good, as
gentle, as gracious, once too breathed in my ear the

io8 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

accents of joy. He was, like myself, the child of an
old house, and Nature had invested him with every
quality that can dazzle and can charm. But his heart
was as pure, and his soul as lofty, as his intellect
and frame were bright, ' and Ursula paused.

Sybil pressed the hand of Ursula to her lips, and
whispered, 'Speak on.'

'The dreams of by-gone days,' continued Ursula,
in a voice of emotion; 'the wild sorrows that I can
recall, and yet feel that I was wisely chastened: he
was stricken in his virtuous pride, the day before he
was to have led me to that altar where alone I found
the consolation that never fails. And thus closed
some years of human love, rny Sybil,' said Ursula,
bending forward and embracing her. 'The world for
a season crossed their fair current, and a power
greater than the world forbade their banns; but they
are hallowed; memory is my sympathy; it is soft and
free, and when he came here to inquire after you, his
presence and agitated heart recalled the past.'

'It is too wild a thought,' said Sybil, 'ruin to him,
ruin to all. No; we are severed by a fate as uncon-
trollable as severed you, dear friend; ours is a living
death.'

'The morrow is unforeseen,' said Ursula. 'Happy,
indeed, would it be for me, my Sybil, that your in-
nocence should be enshrined within these holy walls,
and that the pupil of my best years, and the friend of
my serene life, should be my successor in this house.
But I feel a deep persuasion that the hour has not
arrived for you to take the step that never can be re-
called.'

So, saying, Ursula embraced and dismissed Sybil;
for the conversation, the last passages of which we

SYBIL

109

have given, had occurred when Sybil, according to
her wont on Saturday afternoon, had come to request
the permission of the Lady Superior to visit her father.

It was in a tolerably spacious and not discomfort-
able chamber, the first floor over the printing-office
of the Mowbray Phalanx, that Gerard had found a
temporary home. He had not long returned from his
factory, and, pacing the chamber with a disturbed
step, he awaited the expected arrival of his daughter.

She came; the faithful step, the well-known knock;
the father and the daughter embraced; he pressed to
his heart the child who had clung to him through so
many trials, and who had softened so many sorrows,
who had been the visiting angel in his cell and whose
devotion had led captivity captive.

Their meetings, though regular, were now com-
paratively rare. The sacred day united them, and
sometimes for a short period the previous afternoon,
but otherwise the cheerful hearth and welcome home
were no longer for Gerard. And would the future
bring them to him ? And what was to be the future
of his child ? His mind vacillated between the con-
vent, of which she now seldom spoke, and which
with him was never a cherished idea, and those
dreams of restored and splendid fortunes, which his
sanguine temperament still whispered him, in spite of
hope so long deferred and expectations so often
baulked, might yet be reahsed. And sometimes be-
tween these opposing visions there rose a third, and
more practical, though less picturesque, result: the
idea of her marriage. And with whom ? It was im-
possible that one so rarely gifted, and educated with
so much daintiness, could ever make a wife of the
people. Hatton offered wealth, but Sybil had never

no BENJAMIN DISRAELI

seemed to comprehend his hopes, and Gerard felt
that their ill-assorted ages was a great barrier. There
was of all the men of his own order but one, who
from his years, his great qualities, his sympathy, and
the nature of his toil and means, seemed not unfitted
to be the husband of his daughter; and often had
Gerard mused over the possibility of these intimate
ties with Morley. Sybil had been, as it were, bred
up under his eye; an affection had always subsisted
between them, and he knew well that in former days
Sybil had appreciated and admired the great talents
and acquirements of their friend. At one period he
almost suspected that Morley was attached to her.
And yet, from causes which he had never attempted
to penetrate, probably from a combination of unin-
tentional circumstances, Sybil and Morley had for the
last two or three years been thrown little together,
and their intimacy had entirely died away. To Gerard
it seemed that Morley had ever proved his faithful
friend: Morley had originally dissuaded him with
energy against that course which had led to his dis-
comfiture and punishment; when arrested, his former
colleague was his bail, was his companion and ad-
viser during his trial; had endeavoured to alleviate his
imprisonment; and on his release had offered to share
his means with Gerard, and when these were refused,
he at least supplied Gerard with a roof. And yet,
with all this, that abandonment of heart and brain,
that deep sympathy with every domestic thought
which characterised old days, were somehow or other
wanting. There was on the part of Morley still devo-
tion, but there was reserve.

'You are troubled, my father,' said Sybil, as Ger-
ard continued to pace the chamber.

SYBIL

III

*Only a little restless. I am thinking what a mis-
take it was to have moved in '39.'
Sybil sighed.

*Ah! you were right, Sybil,' continued Gerard;
* affairs were not ripe. We should have waited three
years.'

'Three years!' exclaimed Sybil, starting; 'are
affairs riper now ?'

'The whole of Lancashire is in revolt,' said Gerard.
'There is not a suificient force to keep them in
check. If the miners and colliers rise, and I have
cause to believe that it is more than probable they
will move before many days are past, the game
is up.'

'You terrify me,' said Sybil.

'On the contrary,' said Gerard, smiling, 'the news
is good enough; I'll not say too good to be true, for
I had it from one of the old delegates who is over
here to see what can be done in our north countree.*

'Yes,' said Sybil, inquiringly, and leading on her
father.

'He came to the works; we had some talk. There
are to be no leaders this time, at least no visible
ones. The people will do it themselves. All the
children of labour are to rise on the same day, and
to toil no more, till they have their rights. No vio-
lence, no bloodshed; but toil halts, and then our op-
pressors will learn the great economical truth as well
as moral lesson, that when toil plays, wealth ceases.'

'When toil ceases the people suffer,' said Sybil.
'That is the only truth that we have learnt, and it is
a bitter one.'

'Can we be free without suffering.?' said Gerard.
'Is the greatest of human blessings to be obtained as

112 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

a matter of course; to be plucked like fruit, or seized
like a running stream? No, no; we must suffer, but
we are wiser than of yore; we will not conspire.
Conspiracies are for aristocrats, not for nations.'

*Alas, alas! I see nothing but woe,' said Sybil.
*I cannot believe, after all that has passed, the peo-
ple here will move; I cannot believe, after all that
has passed, all that you, that we, have endured, that
you, my father, will counsel them to move.'

*I counsel nothing,' said Gerard. 'It must be a
great national instinct that does it; but if all England,
if Wales, if Scotland, won't work, is Mowbray to
have a monopoly .^^'

'Ah! that's a bitter jest,' said Sybil. 'England,
Wales, Scotland, will be forced to work as they were
forced before. How can they subsist without labour?
And if they could, there is an organised power that
will subdue them.'

'The Benefit Societies, the Sick and Burial Clubs,
have money in the banks that would maintain the
whole working-classes, with aid in kind that will
come, for six weeks, and that will do the business.
And as for force, why there are not five soldiers to
each town in the kingdom. It's a glittering bugbear,
this fear of the military; simultaneous strikes would
baffle all the armies in Europe.'

'I'll go back and pray that all this is wild talk,'
said Sybil, earnestly. 'After all that has passed,
were it only for your child, you should not speak,
much less think this, my father. What havoc to
our hearts and homes has been all this madness!
It has separated us; it has destroyed our happy

home; it has done more than this ' and here she

wept.

SYBIL

113

'Nay, nay, my child,' said Gerard coming up and
soothing her; * one cannot weigh one's words before
those we love. I can't hear of the people moving
with coldness; that's out of nature; but I promise you
I'll not stimulate the lads here. I am told they are
little inclined to stir. You found me in a moment of
what I must call, I suppose, elation; but I hear they
beat the red-coats and police at Staley Bridge, and
that pricked my blood a bit. I have been ridden
down before this when 1 was a lad, Sybil, by yeo-
manry hoofs. You must allow a little for my feel-
ings.'

She extended her lips to the proffered embrace of
her father. He blessed her and pressed her to his
heart, and soothed her apprehensions with many
words of softness. There was a knock at the door.

'Come in,' said Gerard. And there came in Mr.
Hatton.

They had not met since Gerard's release from York
Castle. There Hatton had visited him, had exercised
his influence to remedy his grievances, and had more
than once offered him the means of maintenance on
receiving his freedom. There were moments of de-
spondency when Gerard had almost wished that the
esteem and regard with which Sybil looked upon
Hatton might have matured into sentiments of a
deeper nature; but on this subject the father had
never breathed a word. Nor had Hatton, except to
Gerard, ever intimated his wishes, for we could
scarcely call them hopes. He was a silent suitor of
Sybil, watching opportunities and ready to avail him-
self of circumstances which he worshipped. His san-
guine disposition, fed by a suggestive and inventive
mind, and stimulated by success and a prosperous

15 B. D.— 8

114 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

life sustained him always to the last. Hatton always
believed that everything desirable must happen if a
man had energy and watched circumstances. He had
confidence too in the influence of his really insinua-
ting manner, his fine taste, his tender tone, his ready
sympathy, all which masked his daring courage and
absolute recklessness of means.

There were general greetings of the greatest
warmth. The eyes of Hatton were suffused with
tears as he congratulated Gerard on his restored
health, and pressed Sybil's hand with the affection of
an old friend between both his own.

'1 was down in this part of the world on business,'
said Hatton, 'and thought 1 would come over here
for a day to find you all out.' And then, after some
general conversation, he said, * And where do you
think I accidentally paid a visit a day or two back ?
At Mowbray Castle. 1 see you are surprised. I saw
all your friends. I did not ask his lordship how the
writ of right went on. I dare say he thinks 'tis all
hushed. But he is mistaken. I have learnt some-
thing which may help us over the stile yet.'

' Well-a-day ! ' said Gerard, 'I once thought if I
could get back the lands the people would at last
have a friend; but that's past. I have been a dreamer
of dreams often when I was overlooking them at
work. And so we all have, I suppose. I would will-
ingly give up my claim if I could be sure the Lanca-
shire lads will not come to harm this bout.'

"Tis a more serious business,' said Hatton, 'than
anything of the kind that has yet happened. The
government are much alarmed. They talk of sending
the Guards down into the north, and bringing over
troops from Ireland.'

SYBIL

'Poor Ireland!' said Gerard. 'Well, I think the
frieze-coats might give us a helping hand now, and
employ the troops at least.'

'No, my dear father, say not such things.'

' Sybil will not let me think of these matters,
friend Hatton,' said Gerard, smiling. ' Well, I sup-
pose it's not in my way, at least I certainly did not
make the best hand of it in '39; but it was London
that got me into that scrape. 1 cannot help fancying
that were I on our moors here a bit with some good
lads, it might be different, and I must say so, I must
indeed, Sybil.'

'But you are quiet here, I hope,' said Hatton.

'Oh! yes,' said Gerard; 'I believe our spirit is
sufficiently broken at Mowbray. Wages weekly drop-
ping, and just work enough to hinder sheer idleness;
that sort of thing keeps the people in very humble
trim. But wait a bit, and when they have reached
starvation point I fancy we shall hear a murmur.'

' I remember our friend Morley in '39, when we
returned from London, gave me a very good charac-
ter of the disposition of the people here,' said Hatton;
' I hope it continues the same. He feared no out-
break then, and the distress in '39 was severe.'

'Well,' said Gerard, 'the wages have been drop-
ping ever since. The people exist, but you can
scarcely say they live. But they are cowed, I fancy.
An empty belly is sometimes as apt to dull the heart
as inflame the courage. And then they have lost
their leaders, for I was away, you see, and have been
quiet enough since I came out; and Warner is broken;
he has suffered more from his time than I did; which
is strange, for he had his pursuits, whereas I was
restless enough, and that's the truth, and, had it not

ii6 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

been for Sybil's daily visit, I think, though I may
never be allowed to live in a castle, I should cer-
tainly have died in one.'
'And hov^ is Morley?'

'Right well; the same as you left him; I saw not
a straw's change when 1 came out. His paper spreads.
He still preaches moral force, and believes that we
shall all end in living in communities. But as the
only community of which I have personal experience
is a gaol, I am not much more inclined to his theory
than heretofore.'

CHAPTER LXIV.

March of the Hell-Cats.

HE reader may not have altogether
forgotten Mr. Nixon and his co-
mates, the miners and colliers of
U that district not very remote from
/ Mowbray, which Morley had visited
at the commencement of this his-

tory, in order to make fruitless researches after a
gentleman whom he subsequently so unexpectedly
stumbled upon. Affairs were as little flourishing in
that region as at Mowbray itself, and the distress fell
upon a population less accustomed to suffering, and
whose spirit was not daunted by the recent discom-
fiture and punishment of their leaders.

Mt can't last,' said Master Nixon, as he took his
pipe from his mouth at the Rising Sun.

He was responded to by a general groan. Mt
comes to this,' he continued, 'Natur' has her laws,
and this is one: a fair day's wage for a fair day's
work.'

'I wish you may get it,' said Juggins, 'with a
harder stint every week, and a shilling a day Knocked

* And what's to come to-morrow ? ' said Waghorn.

off.'

(117)

ii8 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'The butty has given notice to quit in Parker's field
this day se'nnight. Simmons won't drop wages, but
works half time.'

'The boys will be at play afore long/ said a col-
lier.

'Hush! ' said Master Nixon, with a reproving glance,
* play is a very serious word. The boys are not to
go to play as they used to do without by your leave
or with your leave. We must appoint a committee
to consider the question, and we must communicate
with the other trades.'

' You're the man, Master Nixon, to choose for church-
warden,' replied the reproved miner, with a glance of
admiration.

'What is Diggs doing?' said Master Nixon, in a
solemn tone.

' A-dropping wages, and a-raising tommy like fun,'
said Master Waghorn.

'There is a great stir in Hell-house yard,' said a
miner who entered the tap-room at this moment,
much excited. 'They say that all the workshops
will be shut to-morrow; not an order for a month
past. They have got a top-sawyer from London there,
who addresses them every evening, and says that we
have a right to four shillings a day wages, eight hours'
work, and two pots of ale.'

'A fair day's wage for a fair day's work,' said
Master Nixon; 'I would not stickle about hours, but
the money and the drink are very just.'

'If Hell-house yard is astir,' said Waghorn, 'there
will be a good deal to be seen yet.'

'It's grave,' said Master Nixon. 'What think you
of a deputation there? It might come to good.'

'I should like to hear the top-sawyer from London/

SYBIL

119

said Juggins. * We had a Chartist here the other day,
but he did not understand our case at all.'

M heard him,' said Master Nixon; *but what's his
Five Points to us ? Why, he ayn't got tommy among
them.'

'Nor long stints,' said Waghorn.
*Nor butties,' said Juggins.

'He's a pretty fellow to come and talk to us,' said
a collier. ' He had never been down a pit in all his
life.'

The evening passed away in the tap-room of the
Rising Sun in reflections on the present critical state
of affairs, and in consultations as to the most ex-
pedient course for the future. The rate of wages,
which for several years in this district had undergone
a continuous depression, had just received another
downward impulse, and was threatened with still
further reduction, for the price of iron became every
day lower in the market, and the article itself so little
in demand that few but the great capitalists Who
could afford to accumulate their produce were able to
maintain their furnaces in action. The little men who
still continued their speculations could only do so
partially, by diminishing the days of service and in-
creasing their stints or toil, and by decreasing the
rate of wages as well as paying them entirely in
goods, of which they had a great stock, and of which
they thus relieved themselves at a high profit.

Add to all this suffering and discontent among
the workmen the apprehension of still greater evils,
and the tyranny of the butties or middlemen, and it
will with little difficulty be felt that the public mind
of this district was well prepared for the excitement
of the political agitator, especially if he were discreet

I20 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

enough rather to descant on their physical sufferings
and personal injuries than to attempt the propagation
of abstract political principles, with which it was im-
possible for them to sympathise with the impulse and
facility of the inhabitants of manufacturing towns,
members of Hterary and scientific institutes, habitual
readers of political journals, and accustomed to habits
of discussion of all pubhc questions. It generally hap-
pens, however, that where a mere physical impulse
urges the people to insurrection, though it is often an
influence of slow growth and movement, the effects
are more violent, and sometimes more obstinate, than
when they move under the blended authority of moral
and physical necessity, and mix up together the rights
and the wants of man.

However this may be, on the morning after the
conversation at the Rising Sun which we have just
noticed, the population having as usual gone to their
work, having penetrated the pit, and descended the
shaft, the furnaces all blazing, the chimneys all smok-
ing, suddenly there rose a rumour even in the bowels
of the earth, that the hour and the man had at length
arrived: the hour that was to bring them relief, and
the man that was to bear them redress.

'My missus told it me at the pit-head, when she
brought me my breakfast,' said a pikeman to his com-
rade, and he struck a vigorous blow at the broad
seam on which he was working.

'It is not ten mile,' said his companion. 'They'll
be here by noon.'

'There is a good deal to do in their way,' said
the first pikeman. 'All men at work after notice to
be ducked, they say, and every engine to be stopped
forthwith.'

SYBIL

121

'Will the police meet them before they reach
this?'

'There is none: my missus says that not a man
John of them is to be seen. The Hell-cats, as they
call themselves, halt at every town and offer fifty
pounds for a live policeman.'

M'll tell you what,' said the second pikeman, M'll
stop my stint and go up the shaft. My heart's all of
a flutter: I can't work no more. We'll have a fair
day's wage for a fair day's work yet.'

'Come along, I'm your man; if the doggy stop
us, we'll knock him down. The people must have
their rights; we're driven to this; but if one shilling
a day is dropped, why not two?'

'Very true; the people must have their rights, and
eight hours' work is quite enough.'

In the light of day the two miners soon learnt in
more detail the news which the wife of one of them
earlier in the morning had given as a rumour. There
seemed now no doubt that the people of Wodgate,
commonly called the Hell-cats, headed by their Bishop,
had invaded in great force the surrounding district,
stopped all the engines, turned all the potters out of
the manufactories, met with no resistance from the
authorities, and issued a decree that labour was to
cease until the Charter was the law of the land.

This last edict was not the least surprising part of
the whole affair; for no one could have imagined that
the Bishop or any of his subjects had ever even heard
of the Charter, much less that they could by any cir-
cumstances comprehend its nature, or by any means
be induced to believe that its operation would further
their interests or redress their grievances. But all
this had been brought about, as most of the great

122 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

events of history, by the unexpected and unobserved
influence of individual character.

A Chartist leader had been residing for some time
at Wodgate, ever since the distress had become
severe, and had obtained great influence and popular-
ity by assuring a suffering and half-starving population
that they were entitled to four shillings a day and two
pots of ale, and only eight hours* work. He was a
man of abilities and of popular eloquence, and his
representations produced an effect; their reception in-
vested him with influence, and as he addressed a
population who required excitement, being slightly
employed and with few resources for their vacant
hours, the Chartist, who was careful never to speak
of the Charter, became an important personage at
Wodgate, and was much patronised by Bishop Hat-
ton and his lady, whose good offices he was sedu-
lous to conciliate. At the right moment, everything
being ripe and well prepared, the Bishop being very
drunk and harassed by the complaints of his sub-
jects, the Chartist revealed to him the mysteries of the
Charter, and persuaded him not only that the Five
Points would cure everything, but that he was the
only man who could carry the Five Points. The
Bishop had nothing to do; he was making a lock
merely for amusement: he required action; he em-
braced the Charter, without having a definite idea
what it meant, but he embraced it fervently, and he
determined to march into the country at the head of
the population of Wodgate, and estabhsh the faith.

Since the conversion of Constantine, a more im-
portant adoption had never occurred. The whole of
the north of England and a great part of the midland
counties were in a state of disaffection; the entire

SYBIL

123

country was suffering; hope had deserted the labour-
ing classes; they had no confidence in any future of
the existing system. Their organisation, independent
of the political system of the Chartists, was complete.
Every trade had its union, and every union its lodge
in every town and its central committee in every dis-
trict. All that was required was the first move, and
the Chartist emissary had long fixed upon Wodgate
as the spring of the explosion, when the news of the
strike in Lancashire determined him to precipitate the
event.

The march of Bishop Hatton at the head of the
Hell-cats into the mining districts was perhaps the
most striking popular movement since the Pilgrimage
of Grace. Mounted on a white mule, wall-eyed and
of hideous form, the Bishop brandished a huge hammer
with which he had announced that he would destroy
the enemies of the people: all butties, doggies,
dealers in truck and tommy, middle masters, and
main masters. Some thousand Hell-cats followed
him, brandishing bludgeons, or armed with bars of
iron, pickhandles, and hammers. On each side of
the Bishop, on a donkey, was one of his little sons,
as demure and earnest as if he were handling his
file. A flowing standard of silk, inscribed with the
Charter, and which had been presented to him by
the delegate, was borne before him hke the ori-
flamme. Never was such a gaunt, grim crew. As
they advanced, their numbers continually increased,
for they arrested all labour in their progress. Every
engine was stopped, the plug was driven out of
every boiler, every fire was extinguished, every man
was turned out. The decree went forth that labour
was to cease until the Charter was the law of the

124

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

land: the mine and the mill, the foundry and the
loomshop, were, until that consummation, to be idle:
nor was the mighty pause to be confined to these
great enterprises. Every trade of every kind and de-
scription was to be stopped: tailor and cobbler,
brushmaker and sweep, tinker and carter, mason and
builder, all, all; for all an enormous Sabbath, that
was to compensate for any incidental suffering which
it induced by the increased means and the elevated
condition that it ultimately would insure : that para-
dise of artisans, that Utopia of toil, embalmed in
those ringing words, sounds cheerful to the Saxon
race: 'A fair day's wage for a fair day's work.'

CHAPTER LXV.

End of the Tommy-Shop.

URING the strike in Lancashire the
people had never plundered, except
a few provision shops chiefly rifled
W by boys, and their acts of vio-
/ lence had been confined to those
with whom they were engaged in

what, on the whole, might be described as a fair
contest. They solicited sustenance often in great
numbers, but even then their language was mild and
respectful, and they were easily satisfied and always
grateful. A body of two thousand persons, for ex-
ample (the writer speaks of circumstances within his
own experience), quitted one morning a manufactur-
ing town in Lancashire, when the strike had con-
tinued for some time and began to be severely felt,
and made a visit to a neighbouring squire of high
degree. They entered his park in order, men, women,
and children, and then, seating themselves in the im-
mediate vicinity of the mansion, they sent a depu-
tation to announce that they were starving and to
entreat relief. In the instance in question, the lord of
the domain was absent in the fulfilment of those
public duties which the disturbed state of the country

(125)

126 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

devolved on him. His wife, who had a spirit equal
to the occasion, notwithstanding the presence of her
young children, who might well have aggravated
feminine fears, received the deputation herself; told
them that of course she was unprepared to feed so
many, but that, if they promised to maintain order
and conduct themselves with decorum, she would
take measures to satisfy their need. They gave their
pledge and remained tranquilly encamped while prep-
arations were making to satisfy them. Carts were
sent to a neighbouring town for provisions; the keep-
ers killed what they could, and in a few hours the
multitude were fed without the slightest disturbance,
or the least breach of their self-organised discipline.
When all was over, the deputation waited again on
the lady to express to her their gratitude; and, the
gardens of this house being of celebrity in the neigh-
bourhood, they requested permission that the people
might be allowed to walk through them, pledging
themselves that no flower should be plucked and no
fruit touched. The permission was granted: the
multitude, in order, each file under a chief and each
commander of the files obedient to a superior officer,
then made a progress through the beautiful gardens
of their beautiful hostess. They even passed through
the forcing-houses and vineries. Not a border was
trampled on, not a grape plucked; and, when they
quitted the domain, they gave three cheers for the fair
castellan.

The Hell-cats and their followers were of a differ-
ent temper from these gentle Lancashire insurgents.
They destroyed and ravaged; sacked and gutted
houses; plundered cellars; proscribed bakers as ene-
mies of the people; sequestrated the universal stores

SYBIL

117

of all truck and tommy-shops; burst open doors,
broke windows; destroyed the gas-works, that the
towns at night might be in darkness; took union
workhouses by storm, burned rate-books in the
market-place, and ordered public distribution of loaves
of bread and flitches of bacon to a mob; cheering
and laughing amid flames and rapine. In short, they
robbed and rioted; the police could make no head
against them; there was no military force; the whole
district was in their possession; and, hearing that a
battalion of the Coldstreams were coming down by a
train, the Bishop ordered all railroads to be destroyed,
and, if the Hell-cats had not been too drunk to do
his bidding and he too tipsy to repeat it, it is proba-
ble that a great destruction of these public ways
might have taken place.

Does the reader remember Diggs's tommy-shop.?
And Master Joseph ? Well, a terrible scene took place
there. The Wodgate girl with a back like a grass-
hopper, of the Baptist school religion, who had mar-
ried Tummas, once a pupil of the Bishop, and still
his fervent follower, although he had cut open his
pupil's head, was the daughter of a man who had
worked many years in Diggs's field, had suffered
much under his intolerable yoke, and at the present
moment was deep in his awful ledger. She had
heard from her first years of the oppression of Diggs,
and had impressed it on her husband, who was in-
tolerant of any tyranny except at Wodgate. Tummas
and his wife, and a few chosen friends, therefore,
went out one morning to settle the tommy-book of
her father with Mr. Diggs. A whisper of their inten-
tion had got about among those interested in the
subject. It was a fine summer morning, some three

128 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

hours from noon; the shop was shut, indeed it had
not been opened since the riots, and all the lower
windows of the dwelling were closed, barred, and
bolted.

A crowd of women had collected. There was
Mistress Page and Mistress Prance, old Dame Toddles
and Mrs. Mullins, Liza Gray and the comely dame
who was so fond of society that she liked even a riot.

'Master Joseph, they say, has gone to the north,'
said the comely dame.

'I wonder if old Diggs is at home?' said Mrs.
MuUins.

*He won't show, I'll be sworn,' said old Dame
Toddles.

'Here are the Hell-cats,' said the comely dame.
'Well, I do declare, they march like reglars; two,
four, six, twelve; a good score at the least.'

The Hell-cats briskly marched up to the elm-trees
that shaded the canal before the house, and then
formed in line opposite to it They were armed with
bludgeons, crowbars, and hammers. Tummas was at
the head, and by his side his Wodgate wife. Step-
ping forth alone, amid the cheering of the crowd of
women, the pupil of the Bishop advanced to the door
of Diggs's house, gave a loud knock, and a louder
ring. He waited patiently for several minutes: there
was no reply from the interior, and then Tummas
knocked and rang again.

'It's very awful,' said the comely dame.

'It's what I always dreamt would come to pass,'
said Liza Gray, 'ever since Master Joseph cut my
poor baby over the eye with his three-foot rule.'

'I think there can be nobody within,' said Mrs.
Prance.

SYBIL 129

' Old Diggs would never leave the tommy without
a guard,' said Mrs. Page.

'Now, lads,' said Tummas, looking round him and
making a sign; and immediately some half dozen ad-
vanced with their crowbars and were about to strike
at the door, when a window in the upper story of
the house opened, and the muzzle of a blunderbuss
was presented at the assailants.

The women all screamed and ran away.

"Twas Master Joseph,' said the comely dame,
halting to regain her breath.

"Twas Master Joseph,' sighed Mrs. Page.

*'Twas Master Joseph,' moaned Mrs. Prance.

*Sure enough,' said Mrs. Mullins, 'I saw his ugly
face.'

'More frightful than the great gun,' said old Dame
Toddles.

•I hope the children will get out of the way,' said
Liza Gray, 'for he is sure to fire on them.'

In the meantime, while Master Joseph himself was
content with his position and said not a word, a be-
nignant countenance exhibited itself at the window,
and requested in a mild voice to know what his
good friends wanted there.

'We have come to settle Sam Barlow's tommy-
book,' said their leader.

'Our shop is not open to-day, my good friends:
the account can stand over; far be it from me to
press the poor.'

'Master Diggs,' said a Hell-cat, 'canst thou tell us
the price of bacon to-day ? '

'Well, good bacon,' said the elder Diggs, willing
to humour them, 'may be eightpence a pound.'

'Thou art wrong, Master Diggs,' said the Hell-cat,

15 B. D.— 9

I30 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

' 'tis fourpence and long credit. Let us see half a
dozen good flitches at fourpence, Master Diggs; and
be quick.'

There was evidently some controversy in the in-
terior as to the course at this moment to be pursued.
Master Joseph remonstrated against the poHcy of con-
cession, called conciliation, which his father would
fain follow, and was for instant coercion; but age and
experience carried the day, and in a few minutes some
flitches were thrown out of the window to the Hell-
cats, who received the booty with a cheer.

The women returned.

*'Tis the tenpence a pound flitch,' said the
comely dame, examining the prize with a sparkling-
glance.

'I have paid as much for very green stuff,' said
Mrs. Mullins.

'And now, Master Diggs,' said Tummas, 'what is
the price of the best tea a pound ? We be good cus-
tomers, and mean to treat our wives and sweethearts
here. I think we must order half a chest.'

This time there was a greater delay in complying
with the gentle hint; but, the Hell-cats getting ob-
streperous, the tea was at length furnished and di-
vided among the women. This gracious office devolved
on the wife of Tummas, who soon found herself assisted
by a spontaneous committee, of which the comely
dame was the most prominent and active member.
Nothing could be more considerate, good-natured, and
officious than the mode and spirit with which she
divided the stores. The flitches were cut up and ap-
portioned in like manner. The scene was as gay and
bustling as a fair.

'It is as good as grand tommy-day,' said the

SYBIL

comely dame, with a self-complacent smile, as she
strutted about, smiling and dispensing patronage.

The orders for bacon and tea were followed by a
popular demand for cheese. The female committee
received all the plunder and were active in its distri-
bution. At length a rumour got about that Master
Joseph was entering the names of all present in
the tommy-books, so that eventually the score might
be satisfied. The mob had now much increased.
There was a panic among the women, and indigna-
tion among the men: a Hell-cat advanced and an-
nounced that, unless the tommy-books were all given
up to be burnt, they would pull down the house.
There was no reply: some of the Hell-cats advanced;
the women cheered; a crowbar fell upon the door;
Master Joseph fired, wounded a woman and killed a
child.

There rose one of those universal shrieks of wild
passion which announce that men have discarded all
the trammels of civihsation, and found in their licen-
tious rage new and unforeseen sources of power and
vengeance. Where it came from, how it was ob-
tained, who prompted the thought, who first accom-
plished it, were ahke impossible to trace; but, as it
were in a moment, a number of trusses of straw were
piled up before the house and set on fire, the gates
of the timber-yard were forced, and a quantity of
scanthngs and battens soon fed the flame. Everything
indeed that could stimulate the fire was employed;
and every one was occupied in the service. They
ran to the water side and plundered the barges, and
threw the huge blocks of coal upon the enormous
bonfire. Men, women, and children were alike at
work with the eagerness and energy of fiends. The

132 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

roof of the house caught fire: the dwelling burned
rapidly; you could see the flames like the tongues of
wild beasts, licking the bare and vanishing walls; a
single being was observed amid the fiery havoc,
shrieking and desperate; he clung convulsively to a
huge account-book. It was Master Joseph. His father
had made his escape from the back of the premises
and had counselled his son instantly to follow him,
but Master Joseph wished to rescue the ledger as well
as their lives, and the delay ruined him.

*He has got the tommy-book,' cried Liza Gray.

The glare of the clear flame fell for a moment
upon his countenance of agony; the mob gave an in-
fernal cheer; then, some part of the building falling
in, there rose a vast cloud of smoke and rubbish, and
he was seen no more.

CHAPTER LXVI.

Mick Radley's Prophecy.

IFE'S a tumble-about thing of ups
and downs,' said Widow Carey,
stirring her tea, ' but I have been
down this time longer than I can
ever remember.'
'Nor ever will get up, widow,'
said Julia, at whose lodgings herself and several of
Julia's friends had met, ' unless we have the Five
Points.'

M will never marry any man who is not for the
Five Points,' said Carohne.

M should be ashamed to marry any one who had
not the suffrage,' said Harriet.

'He is no better than a slave,' said Julia.

The widow shook her head,
politics,' said the good woman,
manner of business for our sex.'

'And I should like to know why?' said Julia.
'Ayn't we as much concerned in the cause of good
government as the men ? And don't we understand
as much about it ? I am sure the Dandy never does
anything without consulting me.'

'It's fine news for a summer day,' said Caroline,

I don't like these
'they bayn't in a

134 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'to say we can't understand politics, with a Queen
on the throne.'

'She has got her ministers to tell her what to do,'
said Mrs. Carey, taking a pinch of snuff. * Poor in-
nocent young creature, it often makes my heart ache
to think how she is beset.'

'Over the left,' said Juha. 'If the ministers try
to come into her bed-chamber, she knows how to
turn them to the right about.'

'And as for that,' said Harriet, 'why are we not
to interfere with politics as much as the swell ladies
in London ?'

' Don't you remember, too, at the last election
here,' said Caroline, 'how the fine ladies from the
castle came and canvassed for Colonel Rosemary.?'

'Ah!' said Julia, 'I must say I wish the Colonel
had beat that horrid Muddlefist. If we can't have our
own man, I am all for the nobs against the middle
class.'

'We'll have our own man soon, I expect,' said
Harriet. 'If the people don't work, how are the
aristocracy to pay the police?'

'Only think!' said Widow Carey, shaking her head.
'Why, at your time of Hfe, my dears, we never
even heard of these things, much less talked of them.'

' I should think you didn't, widow, and because
why.?' said Julia; 'because there was no march of
mind then. But we know the time of day now as
well as any of them.'

'Lord, my dear,' said Mrs. Carey; 'what's the use
of all that ? What we want is, good wages and
plenty to do; and as for the rest, I don't grudge the
Queen her throne, nor the noblemen and gentlemen
their good things. Live and let live, say I.'

SYBIL

'Why you are a regular oligarch, widow,' said
Harriet.

'Well, Miss Harriet,' replied Mrs. Carey a little
nettled, ' 'tisn't calling your neighbours names that
settles any question. I'm quite sure that Julia will
agree to that, and Caroline too. And perhaps 1 might
call you something if I chose. Miss Harriet; I've heard
things said before this that I should blush to say,
and blush to hear too. But I won't demean myself,
no I won't. Hollyhock, indeed! Why hollyhock?'

At this moment entered the Dandy and Devilsdust.

'Well, young ladies,' said the Dandy. 'A-swelling
the receipt of customs by the consumption of Congo!
That won't do, Julia; it won't indeed. Ask Dusty.
If you want to beat the enemy, you must knock up
the revenue. How d'ye do, widow?'

'The same to you, Dandy Mick. We is deploring
the evils of the times here in a neighbourly way.'

'Oh, the times will soon mend,' said the Dandy,
gaily.

'Well, so I think,' said the widow; 'for when
things are at the worst, they always say '

'But you always say they cannot mend, Mick,'
said Juha interrupting her.

'Why, in a sense, Julia, in a certain sense you are
right; but there are two senses to everything, my
girl,' and Mick began singing, and then executed a
hornpipe, to the gratification of Julia and her guests.

"Tis genteel,' said Mick, receiving their approba-
tion. 'You remember it at the circus?'

' I wonder when we shall have the circus again ? '
said Caroline.

'Not with the present rate of wages,' said Devils-
dust.

136 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'It's very hard/ said Caroline, 'that the middle
class are always dropping our wages. One really
has no amusements now. How I do miss the Tem-
ple!'

'We'll have the Temple open again before long,'
said the Dandy.

'That will be sweet!' exclaimed Caroline. *I often
dream of that foreign nobleman who used to sing,
" Oh, no, we never! " '

'Well, I cannot make out what puts you in such
spirits, Mick,' said JuHa. ' You told me only this
morning that the thing was up, and that we should
soon be slaves for life; working sixteen hours a day
for no wages, and living on oatmeal porridge and po-
tatoes, served out by the millocrats like a regular
Bastile.'

'But, as Madam Carey says, when things are at
the worst '

'Oh! I did say it,' said the widow, 'surely, be-
cause you see, at my years, I have seen so many ups
and downs, though 1 always say '

'Come, Dusty,' said JuHa, 'you are more silent
than ever. You won't take a dish, I know; but tell
us the news, for I am sure you have something to
say.'

'I should think we had,' said Dusty.

Here all the girls began talking at the same time,
and, without waiting for the intelligence, favouring
one another with their guesses of its import.

'I am sure its Shuffle and Screw going to work
half time,' said Harriet; '1 always said so.'

'It's something to put down the people,' said Julia.
'I suppose the nobs have met, and are going to
drop wages again.'

SYBIL

137

M think Dusty is going to be married,' said Caro-
line.

*Not at this rate of wages, I should hope,' said
Mrs. Carey, getting in a word.

'1 should think not,' said Devilsdust. 'You are a
sensible woman, Mrs. Carey. And I don't know ex-
actly what you mean, Miss Caroline,' he added a Uttle
confused. For Devilsdust was a silent admirer of
Caroline, and had been known to say to Mick, who
told Julia, who told her friend, that if he ever found
time to think of such things, that was the sort of
girl he should like to make the partner of his life.

'But Dusty,' said Julia, 'now what is it?'

* Why, I thought you all knew,' said Mick.

*Now, now,' said Julia, 'I hate suspense. I like
news to go round like a fly-wheel.'

'Well,' said Devilsdust, drily, 'this is Saturday,
young women, and Mrs. Carey too, you will not
deny that.'

'I should think not,' said Mrs. Carey, 'by the
token I kept a stall for thirty year in our market, and
never gave it up till this summer, which makes me
always think that, though I have seen many ups and
downs, this '

' Well, what has Saturday to do with us ? ' said
Caroline; 'for neither Dandy Mick nor you can take
us to the Temple, or any other genteel place, since
they are all shut, from the Corn Laws, or some other
cause or other.'

' I believe it's the machines more than the Corn
Laws that have shut up the Temple,' said Harriet.
'Machines, indeed! Fancy preferring a piece of iron
or wood to your own flesh and blood! And they
call that Christianhke! '

138 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'It is Saturday,' said Julia, 'sure enough; and if I
don't lie in bed to-morrow till sunset, may I get a
bate ticket for every day for a week to come.'

'Well, go it, my hearty!' said Mick to Devilsdust.
'It is Saturday, that they have all agreed.'

' And to-morrow is Sunday,' said Devilsdust, sol-
emnly.

'And next day is the blackest day in all the week,'
said Julia. ' When I hear the factory bell on Monday
morning, 1 feel just the same as I did when I crossed
with my uncle from Liverpool to Seaton to eat
shrimps. Wasn't I sick coming home, that's all!'

'You won't hear that bell sound next Monday,'
said Devilsdust, solemnly.

' You don't mean that ? ' said Julia.

'Why, what's the matter?' said Caroline. ' Is the
Queen dead ? '

' No bell on Monday morning ? ' said Mrs. Carey,
incredulously.

'Not a single ring, if all the capitalists in Mow-
bray were to pull together at the same rope,' said
Devilsdust.

'What can it he?' said Julia. 'Come, Mick;
Dusty is always so long telling us anything.'

' Why, we are going to have the devil's own
strike,' said Mick, unable any longer to contain him-
self, and dancing with glee.

'A strike! ' said JuHa.

'I hope they will destroy the machines,' said
Harriet.

'And open the Temple,' said Caroline, 'or else it
will be very dull.'

' I have seen a many strikes,' said the widow; 'but
as Chaffmg Jack was saying to me the other day '

SYBIL

139

* Chaffing Jack be hanged!' said Mick. 'Such a
slow coach won't do in these high-pressure times.
We are going to do the trick, and no mistake. There
shan't be a capitalist in England who can get a day's
work out of us, even if he makes the operatives his
junior partners.'

*I never heard of such things,' said Mrs. Carey,
in amazement.

Mt's all booked, though,' said Devilsdust. * We'll
clean out the Savings Banks; the Benefits and Burials
will shell out. I am treasurer of the Ancient Shep-
herds, and we passed a resolution yesterday unani-
mously, that we would devote all our funds to the
sustenance of labour in this its last and triumphant
struggle against capital.'

'Lor!' said Caroline; *I think it will be very jolly.'

'As long as you can give us money, I don't care,
for my part, how long we stick out,' said Julia.

'Well,' said Mrs. Carey, 'I didn't think there was
so much spirit in the place. As Chaffing Jack was
saying the other day '

'There is no spirit in the place,' said Devilsdust,
'but we mean to infuse some. Some of our friends
are going to pay you a visit to-morrow.'

'And who may they be?' said Caroline.

'To-morrow is Sunday,' said Devilsdust, 'and the
miners mean to say their prayers in Mowbray Church.'

'Well, that will be a shindy!' said Caroline.

'It's a true bill, though,' said Mick. 'This time
to-morrow you will have ten thousand of them in
this town, and if every mill and work in it and ten
mile round is not stopped, my name is not Mick
Radley.'

CHAPTER LX VII.

The Liberator of the People.

T WAS Monday morning. Hatton,
enveloped in his chamber robe and
wearing his velvet cap, was loung-
ing in the best room of the prin-
cipal commercial inn of Mowbray,
over a breakfast-table covered
with all the delicacies of which a northern matin
meal may justly boast. There were pies of spiced
meat and trout fresh from the stream, hams that
Westphalia never equalled, pyramids of bread of every
form and flavour adapted to the surrounding fruits,
some conserved with curious art, and some just gath-
ered from the bed or from the tree.

'It is very odd,' said Hatton to his companion
Morley, 'you can't get coffee anywhere.'

Morley, who had supposed that coffee was about
the commonest article of consumption in Mowbray,
looked a little surprised; but at this moment Hatton's
servant entered with a mysterious yet somewhat
triumphant air, ushering in a travelling biggin of their
own, fuming like one of the springs of Geyser.

'Now try that,' said Hatton to Morley as the
servant poured him out a cup; 'you won't find that
so bad.'

(140)

SYBIL

141

* Does the town continue pretty quiet ? ' inquired
Morley of the servant, as he was leaving the room.

* Quite quiet, I believe, sir, but a great many peo-
ple in the streets. All the mills are stopped.'

'Well, this is a strange business,' said Hatton,
when they were once more alone. ' You had no
idea of it when I met you on Saturday?'

'None; on the contrary, 1 felt convinced that there
were no elements of general disturbance in this dis-
trict. I thought from the first that the movement
would be confined to Lancashire and would easily be
arrested; but the feebleness of the government, the
want of decision, perhaps the want of means, have
permitted a flame to spread, the extinction of which
will not soon be witnessed.'

* Do you mean that ? '

'Whenever the mining population is disturbed,
the disorder is obstinate. On the whole, they endure
less physical suffering than most of the working
classes, their wages being considerable; and they are
so brutalised that they are more difficult to operate
on than our reading and thinking population of the
factories. But, when they do stir, there is always
violence and a determined course. When I heard of
their insurrection on Saturday, I was prepared for
great disturbances in their district; but that they
should suddenly resolve to invade another country, as
it were, the seat of another class of labour, and
where the hardships, however severe, are not of their
own kind, is to me amazing, and convinces me that
there is some political head behind the scenes, and
that this move, however unintentional on the part of
the miners themselves, is part of some comprehensive
scheme which, by widening the scene of action and

s

142 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

combining several counties and classes of labour in
the broil, must inevitably embarrass and perhaps para-
lyse the government.*

'There is a good deal in what you say,' said Hat-
ton, taking a strawberry with rather an absent air;
and then he added, 'You remember a conversation
we once had, the eve of my departure from Mowbray
in '39?'

'I do,' said Morley, reddening.

'The miners were not so ready then,' said Hatton.

'They were not,' said Morley, speaking with some
confusion.

'Well, they are here now,' said Hatton.
'They are,' said Morley, thoughtfully, but more
collected.

'You saw them enter yesterday?' said Hatton. '1
was sorry I missed it, but I was taking a walk with
the Gerards up Dale, to see the cottage where they
once lived, and which they used to talk so much
about! Was it a strong body?'

' 1 should say about two thousand men, and, as far
as bludgeons and iron staves go, armed.'

'A formidable force with no military to encounter
them.'

' Irresistible, especially with a favourable popu-
lation.'

' You think the people were not grieved to see
them?'

'Certainly. Left alone, they might have remained
quiet; but they only wanted the spark. We have a
number of young men here who have for a long time
been murmuring against our inaction and what they
call want of spirit. The Lancashire strike set them
all agog; and, had any popular leader, Gerard for ex-

SYBIL

143

ample, or Warner, resolved to move, they were ready.*

'The times are critical,' said Hatton, wheeling his
armchair from the table and resting his feet on the
empty fireplace. 'Lord de Mowbray had no idea of
all this. I was with him on my way here, and found
him quite tranquil. I suppose the invasion of yester-
day has opened his eyes a little.'

•What can he do?' said Morley. *It is useless to
apply to the government. They have no force to
spare. Look at Lancashire : a few dragoons and rifles,
hurried about from place to place and harassed by
night service; always arriving too late, and generally
attacking the wrong point, some diversion from the
main scheme. Now, we had a week ago some of
the 17th Lancers here. They have been marched into
Lancashire. Had they remained, the invasion would
never have occurred.'

'You haven't a soldier at hand?'

'Not a man; they have actually sent for a party of
the 73rd from Ireland to guard us. Mowbray may be
burnt before they land.'

'And the castle too,' said Hatton, quietly. 'These
are indeed critical times, Mr. Morley. I was think-
ing, when walking with our friend Gerard yesterday,
and hearing him and his charming daughter dilate
upon the beauties of the residence which they had
forfeited, I was thinking what a strange thing life is,
and that the fact of a box of papers belonging to him
being in the possession of another person who only
lives close by, for we were walking through Mow-
bray woods '

At this moment a waiter entered, and said there
was one without who wished to speak with Mr.
Morley.

144 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Let him come up,' said Hatton; 'he will give us
some news, perhaps.'

And there was accordingly shown up a young
man who had been a member of the convention in
'39 with Morley, afterwards of the secret council
with Gerard, the same young man who had been the
first arrested on the night that Sybil was made a
prisoner, having left the scene of their deliberations
for a moment in order to fetch her some water. He
too had been tried, convicted, and imprisoned, though
for a shorter time than Gerard; and he was the
Chartist apostle who had gone and resided at Wod-
gate, preached the faith to the barbarians, converted
them, and was thus the primary cause of the present
invasion of Mowbray.

*Ah! Field,' said Morley, Ms it you?'

'You are surprised to see me;' and then the young
man looked at Hatton.

'A friend,' said Morley; 'speak as you Hke.'

'Our great man, the leader and liberator of the
people,' said Field, with a smile, 'who has carried all
before him, and who, I verily believe, will carry all
before him, for Providence has given him those super-
human energies which can alone emancipate a race,
wishes to confer with you on the state of this town
and neighbourhood. It has been represented to him
that no one is more knowing and experienced than
yourself in this respect; besides, as the head of our
most influential organ in the press, it is in every way
expedient that you should see him. He is at this
moment below, giving instructions and receiving re-
ports of the stoppage of all the country works; but,
if you like, 1 will bring him up here, we shall be less
disturbed.'

SYBIL

*By all means/ said Hatton, who seemed to ap-
prehend that Morley would make some difficulties.
'By all means.'

'Stop,' said Morley; Miave you seen Gerard?'

*No,' said Field. *I wrote to him some time back,
but his reply was not encouraging. I thought his
spirit was perhaps broken.'

'You know that he is here?'

'I concluded so, but we have not seen him;
though, to be sure, we have seen so many and done
so much since our arrival yesterday, it is not wonder-
ful. By-the-bye, who is this black-coat you have
here, this St. Lys? We took possession of the church
yesterday on our arrival, for it is a sort of thing that
pleases the miners and coHiers wonderfully, and I
always humour them. This St. Lys preached us such
a sermon that I was almost afraid at one time the
game would be spoiled. Our great man was alarm-
ingly taken by it, was saying his prayers all day, and
had nearly marched back again: had it not been for
the excellence of the rum-and-water at our quarters,
the champion of the Charter would have proved a
pious recreant.'

'St. Lys will trouble you,' said Morley. 'Alas
for poor human nature, when violence can only be
arrested by superstition!'

'Come, don't you preach,' said the Chartist. 'The
Charter is a thing the people can understand, es-
pecially when they are masters of the country; but as
for moral force, I should like to know how I could
have marched from Wodgate to Mowbray with that
on my banner.'

'Wodgate,' said Morley, 'that's a queer place.'

'Wodgate,' said Hatton; 'what Wodgate is that?'

15 B. D.— 10

V

146 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

At this moment a great noise sounded without the
room, the door was banged, there seemed a scuffling,
some harsh high tones, the deprecatory voices of
many waiters. The door was banged again, and this
time flew open; while, exclaiming in an insolent coarse
voice, 'Don't tell me of your private rooms; who is
master here, I should Hke to know?' there entered a
very thickset man, rather under the middle size, with
a brutal and grimy countenance, wearing the unbut-
toned coat of a police serjeant conquered in fight, a
cocked hat, with a white plume, which was also a
trophy of war, a pair of leather breeches and topped
boots, which from their antiquity had the appearance
of being his authentic property. This was the leader
and Liberator of the people of England. He carried in
his hand a large hammer, which he had never parted
with during the whole of the insurrection; and, stop-
ping when he had entered the room and surveying
its inmates with an air at once stupid and arrogant,
recognising Field the Chartist, he hallooed out, ' I tell
you, I want him. He's my lord chancellor and prime
minister, my head and principal doggy; I can't go on
without him. Well, what do think?' he said, ad-
vancing to Field; 'here's a pretty go! They won't
stop the works at the big country mill you were
talking of. They won't, won't they? Is my word
the law of the land, or is it not ? Have I given my
commands that all labour shall cease till the Queen
sends me a message that the Charter is established,
and is a man who has a mill to shut his gates upon
my forces, and pump upon my people with engines?
There shall be fire for this water;' and, so saying,
the Liberator sent his hammer with such force upon
the table, that the plate and porcelain and accumu-

SYBIL

H7

lated luxuries of Mr. Hatton's breakfast perilously
vibrated.

'We will inquire into this, sir,' said Field, 'and
we will take the necessary steps.'

' We will inquire into this, and we will take the
necessary steps,' said the Liberator, looking round
with an air of pompous stupidity; and then, taking
up some peaches, he began devouring them with
considerable zest.

' Would the Liberator like to take some breakfast ? '
said Mr. Hatton.

The Liberator looked at his host with a glance of
senseless intimidation, and then, as if not conde-
scending to communicate directly with ordinary men,
he uttered in a more subdued tone to the Chartist
these words, 'Glass of ale.'

Ale was instantly ordered for the Liberator, who
after a copious draught assumed a less menacing air,
and smacking his lips, pushed aside the dishes, and
sat down on the table, swinging his legs.

'This is my friend of whom I spoke, and whom
you wished to see, sir,' said the Chartist; 'the
most distinguished advocate of popular rights we
possess, the editor of the Mowbray Phalanx, Mr.
Morley.'

Morley slightly advanced; he caught the Liberators
eye, who scrutinised him with extreme earnestness,
and then, jumping from the table, shouted: 'Why,
this is the muff that called on me in Hell-house Yard
three years ago.'

*I had that honour,' said Morley, quietly.

'Honour be hanged! 'said the Bishop; 'you know
something about somebody; I couldn't squeeze you
then, but by G I will have it out of you now.

148 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Now, cut it short; have you seen him, and where
does he live?'

'I came then to gain information, not to give it,'
said Morley. * I had a friend who wished much to
see this gentleman '

*He ayn't no gentleman,' said the Bishop; *he's my
brother: but I tell you what, I'll do something for him
now. I'm cock of the walk, you see; and that's a
sort of thing that don't come twice in a man's life.
One should feel for one's flesh and blood; and if I
find him out, I'll make his fortune, or my name is
not Simon Hatton.'

The creator and counsellor of peers started in his
chair, and looked aghast. A glance was interchanged
between him and Morley, which revealed their mutual
thoughts; and the great antiquary, looking at the
Liberator with a glance of blended terror and disgust,
walked away to the window.

'Suppose you put an advertisement in your paper,*
continued the Bishop. '1 know a traveller who lost
his keys at the Yard, and got them back again by
those same means. Go on advertising till you find
him, and my prime minister and principal doggy here
shall give you an order on the town-council for your
expenses.'

Morley bowed his thanks in silence.

The Bishop continued: 'What's the name of the
man who has got the big mill here, about three mile
off, who won't stop his works, and ducked my men
this morning with his engines? I'll have fire, I say,
for that water; do you hear that, Master Newspaper?
I'll have fire for that water before I am many hours
older.'

'The Liberator means Trafford,' said the Chartist.

SYBIL

149

M'll Trafford him,' said the Liberator, brandishing
his hammer. 'He ducks my messenger, does he? I
tell you I'll have fire for that water;' and he looked
around him as if he courted some remonstrance, in
order that he might crush it.

'Trafford is a humane man,' said Morley^ in a quiet
tone, 'and behaves well to his people.'

*A man with a big mill humane!' exclaimed the
Bishop; 'with two or three thousand slaves working
under the same roof, and he doing nothing but eating
their vitals. I'll have no big mills where I'm main
master. Let him look to it. Here goes;' and he
jumped off the table. ' Before an hour I'll pay this
same Trafford a visit, and I'll see whether he'll duck
me. Come on, my prime doggy;' and nodding
to the Chartist to follow him, the Liberator left the
room.

Hatton turned his head from the window, and ad-
vanced quickly to Morley. 'To business, friend Mor-
ley. This savage cannot be quiet for a moment; he
exists only in destruction and rapine. If it were not
Trafford's mill, it would be something else. I am
sorry for the Traffords; they have old blood in their
veins. Before sunset their settlement will be razed to
the ground. Can we prevent it ? Why not attack
the castle, instead of the mill?'

CHAPTER LXVIII.

A Walk in Mowbray Park.

BOUT noon of this day there was
a great stir in Mowbray. It was
generally whispered about that the
Liberator, at the head of the
Hell-cats, and all others who chose
to accompany them, was going to
pay a visit to Mr. Trafford's settlement, in order to
avenge an insult which his envoys had experienced
early in the morning, when, accompanied by a rab-
ble of two or three hundred persons, they had re-
paired to the Mowedale works, in order to signify
the commands of the Liberator that labour should
stop, and, if necessary, to enforce those commands.
The injunctions were disregarded; and when the mob,
in pursuance of their further instructions, began to
force the great gates of the premises, in order that
they might enter the building, drive the plugs out of
the steam-boilers, and free the slaves enclosed, a
masked battery of powerful engines was suddenly
opened upon them, and the whole band of patriots
were deluged. It was impossible to resist a power
which seemed inexhaustible, and, wet to their skins,
and amid the laughter of their adversaries, they fled.
This ridiculous catastrophe had terribly excited the
(150)

SYBIL

ire of the Liberator. He vowed vengeance, and as,
like all great revolutionary characters and military
leaders, the only foundation of his power was con-
stant employment for his troops and constant excite-
ment for the populace, he determined to place himself
at the head of the chastising force, and make a great ex-
ample, which should establish his awful reputation, and
spread the terror of his name throughout the district.

Field, the Chartist, had soon discovered who were
the rising spirits of Mowbray; and Devilsdust and
Dandy Mick were both sworn on Monday morning of
the council of the Liberator, and took their seats at
the board accordingly. Devilsdust, used to public
business, and to the fulfilment of responsible duties,
was calm and grave, but equally ready and deter-
mined. Mick's head, on the contrary, was quite
turned by the importance of his novel position. He
was greatly excited, could devise nothing, and would
do anything, always followed Devilsdust in council;
but when he executed their joint decrees, and showed
himself about the town, he strutted like a peacock,
swore at the men, and winked at the girls, and was
the idol and admiration of every gaping or huzzaing
younker.

There was a large crowd assembled in the Market
Place, in which were the Liberator's lodgings, many
of them armed in their rude fashion, and all anxious
to march. Devilsdust was with the great man and
Field; Mick below was marshalling the men, and
swearing hke a trooper at all who disobeyed, or who
misunderstood him.

'Come, stupid,' said he, addressing Tummas,
*what are you staring about? Get your men in or-
der, or I'll be among you.'

152 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Stoopid!' said Tummas, staring at Mick with
immense astonishment. * And who are you who says
''Stoopid?" A white-hvered handloom as I dare say,
or a son-of-a-gun of a factory slave. Stoopid, indeed!
What next, when a Hell-cat is to be called stoopid
by such a thing as you?'

* I'll give you a piece of advice, young man,' said
Master Nixon, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and
blowing an immense puff: 'just you go down the
shaft for a couple of months, and then you'll learn a
little of life, which is wery useful.'

The hvely temperament of the Dandy would here
probably have involved him in an inconvenient em-
broilment, had not some one at this moment touched
him on the shoulder, and, looking round, he recog-
nised Mr. Morley. Notwithstanding the difference of
their political schools, Mick had a profound respect for
Morley, though why he could not perhaps precisely ex-
press. But he had heard Devilsdust for years declare that
Stephen Morley was the deepest head in Mowbray;
and though he regretted the unfortunate weakness in
favour of that imaginary abstraction, called moral
force, for which the editor of the Phalanx was dis-
tinguished, still Devilsdust used to say, that if ever
the great revolution were to occur, by which the
rights of labour were to be recognised, though bolder
spirits and brawnier arms might consummate the
change, there was only one head among them that
would be capable, when they had gained their power,
to guide it for the pubhc weal, and, as Devilsdust
used to add, ^ carry out the thing,' and that was
Morley.

It was a fine summer day, and Mowedale was as
resplendent as when Egremont, amid its beauties, first

SYBIL

began to muse over the beautiful. There was the
same bloom over the sky, the same shadowy lustre
on the trees, the same sparkling brilliancy on the
waters. A herdsman, following some kine, was
crossing the stone bridge; and, except their lowing as
they stopped and sniffed the current of fresh air in
its centre, there was not a sound.

Suddenly the tramp and hum of a multitude broke
upon the sunshiny silence. A vast crowd, with some
assumption of an ill-disciplined order, approached
from the direction of Mowbray. At their head rode a
man on a white mule. Many of his followers were
armed with bludgeons and other rude weapons, and
moved in files. Behind them spread a more miscel-
laneous throng, in which women were not wanting,
and even children. They moved rapidly; they swept
by the former cottage of Gerard; they were in sight
of the settlement of Trafford.

'All the waters of the river shall not dout the
blaze that I will light up to-day,' said the Liberator.

'He is a most inveterate capitalist,' said Field,
'and would divert the minds of the people from the
Five Points by allotting them gardens and giving
them baths.'

'We will have no more gardens in England; every-
thing shall be open,' said the Liberator, 'and baths
shall only be used to drown the enemies of the
people. I always was against washing; it takes the
marrow out of a man.'

'Here we are,' said Field, as the roofs and bowers
of the village, the spire and the spreading factory,
broke upon them. 'Every door and every window
closed! The settlement is deserted. Some one has
been before us, and apprised them of our arrival.'

154 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Will they pour water on me?' said the Bishop.
' It must be a stream indeed that shall put out the
blaze that 1 am going to light. What shall we do
first Halt, there, you men,' said the Liberator, look-
ing back with that scowl which his apprentices never
could forget. ' Will you halt, or won't you } or must
I be among yoM}'

There was a tremulous shuffling, and then a com-
parative silence.

The women and children of the village had been
gathered into the factory yard, the great gates of which
were closed.

'What shall we burn first.?' asked the Bishop.

*We may as well parley with them a little,' said
Field; 'perhaps we may contrive to gain admission, and
then we can sack the whole affair and let the people
burn the machinery. It will be a great moral lesson.'

'As long as there is burning,' said the Bishop, 'I
don't care what lessons you teach them. I leave
them to you; but I will have fire to put out that
water.'

'I will advance,' said Field; and so saying, he
went forward and rang at the gate; the Bishop, on
his mule, with a dozen Hell-cats accompanying him;
the great body of the people about twenty yards
withdrawn.

'Who rings?' asked a loud voice.

'One who, by the order of the Liberator, wishes
to enter and see whether his commands for a com-
plete cessation of labour have been complied with in
this establishment.'

'Very good,' said the Bishop.

'There is no hand at work here,' said the voice;
'and you may take my word for it.'

SYBIL

'Your word be hanged,' said the Bishop. *I want
to know '

'Hush, hush!' said Field; and then in a louder
voice he said, 'It may be so; but as our messengers
this morning were not permitted to enter, and were
treated with great indignity '

'That's it,' said the Bishop.

'With great indignity,' continued Field, 'we must
have ocular experience of the state of affairs, and I
beg and recommend you therefore at once to let the
Liberator enter.'

'None shall enter here,' replied the unseen guard-
ian of the gate.

'That's enough,' cried the Bishop.

'Beware!' said Field.

'Whether you let us in or not, 'tis all the same,'
said the Bishop; M will have fire for your water, and
I have come for that. Now, lads!'

'Stop,' said the voice of the unseen. 'I will speak
to you.'

'He is going to let u§ in,' whispered Field to the
Bishop.

And suddenly there appeared on the flat roof of
the lodge that was on one side of the gates, Gerard.
His air, his figure, his position were alike command-
ing, and at the sight of him a loud and spontaneous
cheer burst from the assembled thousands. It was
the sight of one who was, after all, the most popular
leader of the people that had ever figured in these
parts, whose eloquence charmed and commanded,
whose disinterestedness was acknowledged, whose
sufferings had created sympathy, whose courage,
manly bearing, and famous feats of strength were a
source to them of pride. There was not a Mowbray

156 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

man whose heart did not throb with emotion, and
whose memory did not recall the orations from the
Druids' altar and the famous meetings on the moor.
'Gerard for ever!' was the universal shout.

The Bishop, who liked no one to be cheered ex-
cept himself, like many great men, was much dis-
gusted, a little perplexed. 'What does all this mean?'
he whispered to Field. *I came here to burn down
the place.'

'Wait awhile,' said Field, 'we must humour the
Mowbray men a bit. This is their favourite leader,
at least was in old days. I know him well; he is a
bold and honest man.'

'Is this the man who ducked my people?' asked
the Bishop, fiercely.

'Hush!' said Field; 'he is going to speak.'

'My friends,' said Gerard, 'for if we are not friends,
who should be? (loud cheers, and cries of "Very
true,") if you come here to learn whether the Mowe-
dale works are stopped, I give you my word there is
not a machine or man that stirs here at this mo-
ment (great cheering). I believe you'll take my word
(cheers and cries of "We will"). I beHeve I'm
known at Mowbray ("Gerard for ever!"), and on
Mowbray Moor too (tumultuous cheering). We have
met together before this ("That we have"), and shall
meet again (great cheering). The people haven't so
many friends that they should quarrel with well-
wishers. The master here has done his best to soften
your lots. He is not one of those who deny that
labour has rights (loud cheers). I say that Mr. Trafford
has always acknowledged the rights of labour (pro-
longed cheers, and cries of " So he has"). Well, is he
the man that we should injure? ("No, no.") What if

SYBIL

157

he did give a cold reception to some visitors this
morning (groans) ; perhaps they wore faces he was
not used to (loud cheers and laughter from the Mow-
bray people). 1 dare say they mean as well as we
do; no doubt of that; but still a neighbour's a neigh-
bour (immense cheering). Now, my lads, three cheers
for the national holiday;' and Gerard gave the time,
and his voice was echoed by the thousands pres-
ent. 'The master here has no wish to interfere with
the national holiday; all he wants to secure is that
all mills and works should alike stop (cries of ''Very
just"). And 1 say so, too,' continued Gerard. 'It is
just; just and manly, and hke a true-born English-
man, as he is, who loves the people, and whose
fathers before him loved the people (great cheering).
Three cheers for Mr. Trafford, I say;' and they were
given; 'and three cheers for Mrs. Trafford too, the
friend of the poor!' Here the mob became not only
enthusiastic, but maudlin; all vowing to each other
that Trafford was a true-born Englishman and his
wife a very angel upon earth. This popular feeling
is so contagious that even the Hell-cats shared it,
cheering, shaking hands with each other, and almost
shedding tears, though it must be confessed, they had
some vague idea that it was all to end in something
to drink.

Their great leader, however, remained unmoved,
and nothing but his brutal stupidity could have pre-
vented him from endeavouring to arrest the tide of
public feeling; but he was quite bewildered by the
diversion, and for the first time failed in finding a
prompter in Field. The Chartist was cowed by Ger-
ard; his old companion in scenes that the memory
lingered over, and whose superior genius had often

158 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

controlled and often led him. Gerard, too, had rec-
ognised him, and had made some personal allusion
and appeal to him, which alike touched his con-
science and flattered his vanity. The ranks were
broken, the spirit of the expedition had dissolved;
the great body were talking of returning, some of the
stragglers, indeed, were on their way back; the
Bishop, silent and confused, kept knocking the mane
of his mule with his hammer.

*Now,' said Morley, who during this scene had
stood apart, accompanied by Devilsdust and Dandy
Mick, *now/ said Morley to the latter, 'now is your
time.'

'Gentlemen!' sang out Mick.

'A speech, a speech!' cried out several.

'Listen to Mick Radley,' whispered Devilsdust,
moving swiftly among the mob, and addressing every
one he met of influence. 'Listen to Mick Radley; he
has something important.'

'Radley for ever! Listen to Mick Radley! Go it,
Dandy! Pitch it into them! Silence for Dandy Mick!
Jump up on that ere bank;' and on the bank Mick
mounted accordingly.

'Gentlemen,' said Mick.

'Well, you have said that before.'

'1 like to hear him say "Gentlemen;" it's re-
spectful.'

'Gentlemen,' said the Dandy, 'the national holi-
day has begun '

' Three cheers for it! '
'Silence! hear the Dandy!'

'The national holiday has begun,' continued Mick,
'and it seems to me the best thing for the people to
do is to take a walk in Lord de Mowbray's park.'

SYBIL

159

This proposition was received with one of those
wild shouts of approbation which indicate that the
orator has exactly hit his audience between wind and
water. The fact is, the public mind at this instant
wanted to be led, and in Dandy Mick a leader ap-
peared. A leader, to be successful, should embody
in his system the necessities of his followers, express
what every one feels, but no one has had the ability
or the courage to pronounce.

The courage, the adroitness, the influence of Ger-
ard had reconciled the people to the relinquishment
of the great end for which they had congregated;
but neither man nor multitude like to make prepara-
tions without obtaining a result. Every one wanted
to achieve some object by the movement; and at this
critical juncture an object was proposed, and one
which promised novelty, amusement, excitement.
The Bishop, whose consent must be obtained, but
who relinquished an idea with the same difficulty
with which he had imbibed it, alone murmured, and
kept saying to Field, ' I thought we came to burn
down this mill! A bloody-minded capitalist, a man
that makes gardens, and forces the people to wash
themselves! What is all this?'

Field said what he could, while Devilsdust, lean-
ing over the mule's shoulder, cajoled the other ear of
the Bishop, who at last gave his consent with almost
as much reluctance as George the Fourth did to the
emancipation of the Roman Catholics; but he made
his terms, and said, in a sulky voice, he must have
a glass of ale.

'Drink a glass of ale with Lord de Mowbray,' said
Devilsdust.

CHAPTER LXIX.

Mr. Mountchesney Temporises.

HEN the news had arrived in the
morning at Mowbray, that the mes-
sengers of the Bishop had met
with a somewhat queer reception
at the Mowedale works, Gerard,
prescient that some trouble might in
consequence occur there, determined to repair at once
to the residence of his late employer. It so hap-
pened that Monday was the day on which the cot-
tages up the Dale and on the other side of the river
were visited by an envoy of Ursula Trafford, and it
was the office of Sybil this morning to fulfil the du-
ties of that mission of charity. She had mentioned
this to her father on the previous day, and as, in
consequence of the strike, he was no longer occu-
pied, he had proposed to accompany his daughter on
the morrow. Together therefore they had walked
until they arrived, it being then about two hours to
noon, at the bridge, a little above their former resi-
dence. Here they were to separate. Gerard em-
braced his daughter with even more than usual
tenderness; and, as Sybil crossed the bridge, she
looked round at her father, and her glance caught his,
turned for the same fond purpose.
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SYBIL

i6i

Sybil was not alone; Harold, who had ceased to
gambol, but who had gained in stature, majesty, and
weight what he had lost of lithe and frolic grace,
was by her side. He no longer danced before his
mistress, coursed away and then returned, or vented
his exuberant life in a thousand feats of playful vig-
our; but, sedate and observant, he was always at
hand, ever sagacious, and seemed to watch her every
glance.

The day was beautiful, the scene was fair, the
spot indeed was one which rendered the performance
of gracious offices to Sybil doubly sweet. She ever
begged of the Lady Superior that she might be her
minister to the cottages up Dale. They were full of
famihar faces. It was a region endeared to Sybil by
many memories of content and tenderness. And as
she moved along to-day, her heart was hght, and the
natural joyousness of her disposition, which so many
adverse circumstances had tended to repress, was
visible in her sunny face. She was happy about her
father. The invasion of the miners, instead of
prompting him, as she had feared, to some rash con-
duct, appeared to have filled him only with disgust.
Even now he was occupied in a pursuit of order and
peace, counselling prudence and protecting the be-
nevolent.

She passed through a copse which skirted those
woods of Mowbray wherein she had once so often
rambled with one whose image now hovered over
her spirit. Ah! what scenes and changes, dazzling
and dark, had occurred since the careless though
thoughtful days of her early girlhood! Sybil mused:
she recalled the moonlit hour, when Mr. Frankhn first
paid a visit to their cottage, their walks and wan-

15 B. D.— II

i62 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

dering, the expeditions which she planned, and the
explanations which she so artlessly gave him. Her
memory ^wandered to their meeting in Westminster,
and all the scenes of sorrow and of softness of which it
was the herald. Her imagination raised before her in
colours of Hght and life the morning, the terrible
morning, when he came to her desperate rescue; his
voice sounded in her ear; her cheek glowed as she
recalled their tender farewell.

It was past noon: Sybil had reached the term of
her expedition, had visited her last charge; she was
emerging from the hills into the open country, and
about to regain the river road that would in time
have conducted her to the bridge. On one side of
her was the moor, on the other a wood that was the
boundary of Mowbray Park. And now a number of
women met her, some of whom she recognised, and
had indeed visited earlier in the morning. Their
movements were disordered; distress and panic were
expressed on their countenances. Sybil stopped, she
spoke to some, the rest gathered round her. The
Hell-cats were coming, they said; they were on the
other side of the river, burning mills, destroying all
they could put their hands on, man, woman, and
child.

Sybil, alarmed for her father, put to them some
questions, to which they gave incoherent answers.
It was however clear that they had seen no one, and
knew nothing of their own experience. The rumour
had reached them that the mob was advancing up
Dale; those who had apprised them had, according to
their statement, absolutely witnessed the approach of
the multitude, and so they had locked up their cot-
tages, crossed the bridge, and run away to the woods

SYBIL

and moor. Under these circumstances, deeming that
there might be much exaggeration, Sybil at length
resolved to advance, and in a few minutes those
whom she had encountered were out of sight. She
patted Harold, who looked up in her face and gave a
bark, significant of his approbation of her proceeding,
and also of his consciousness that something strange
was going on. She had not proceeded very far be-
fore two men on horseback, at full gallop, met her.
They pulled up as soon as they observed her, and
said, 'You had better go back as fast as you can:
the mob is out, and coming up Dale in great force.'

Sybil inquired, with much agitation, whether they
had themselves seen the people, and they replied
that they had not, but that advices had been received
from Mowbray of their approach, and, as for them-
selves, they were hurrying at their utmost speed to a
town ten miles off, where they understood some
yeomanry were stationed, and to whom the Mayor
of Mowbray had last night sent a dispatch. Sybil
would have inquired whether there were time for her
to reach the bridge and join her father at the factory
of Trafford, but the horsemen were impatient and
rode off. Still she determined to proceed. All that
she now aimed at was to reach Gerard and share his
fate.

A boat put across the river, with two men and a
crowd of women. The mob had been seen; at least
there was positively one person present who had dis-
tinguished them in the extreme distance, or rather
the cloud of dust which they had created; there were
dreadful stories of their violence and devastation. It
was understood that a body meant to attack Trafford's
works, but, as the narrator added, it was very proba-

i64 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

ble that the greater part would cross the bridge and
so on to the moor, where they would hold a meet-
ing.

Sybil would fain have crossed in the boat, but
there was no one to assist her. They had escaped,
and meant to lose no time in finding a place of ref-
uge for the moment. They were sure if they recrossed
now, they must meet the mob. They were about to
leave Sybil in infinite distress, when a lady, driving
herself in a pony carriage, with a couple of grooms
behind her, mounted also on ponies of the same form
and colour, came up from the direction of the moor,
and, observing the group and Sybil much agitated,
pulled up and inquired the cause. One of the men,
frequently interrupted by all the women, immediately
entered into a narrative of the state of affairs, for
which the lady was evidently quite unprepared, for
her alarm was considerable.

'And this young person will persist in crossing
over,' continued the man. 'It's nothing less than
madness. I tell her she will meet instant death or
worse.'

'It seems to me very rash,' said the lady in a kind
tone, and who seemed to recognise her.

' Alas ! what am I to do ! ' exclaimed Sybil. ' I left
my father at Mr. Trafford's!'

'Well, we have no time to lose,' said the man,
whose companion had now fastened the boat to the
bank, and so, wishing them good-morning, and fol-
lowed by the whole of his cargo, they went on their
way.

But just at this moment a gentleman, mounted on
a knowing little cob, came galloping up, exclaiming
as he reached the pony carriage, ' My dear Joan, 1 am

SYBIL

165

looking after you. I have been in the greatest alarm
for you. There are riots on the other side of the
river, and I was afraid you might have crossed the
bridge.'

Upon this Lady Joan related to Mr, Mountchesney
how she had just become acquainted with the intelli-
gence, and then they conversed together for a moment
or so in a whisper: when, turning round to Sybil,
she said, 'I think you had really better come home
with us till affairs are a little more quiet.

'You are most kind,' said Sybil, 'but if I could
get back to the town through Mowbray Park, I think
I might do something for my father!'

*We are going to the castle through the park at
this moment,' said the gentleman. 'You had better
come with us. There you will at least be safe, and
perhaps we shall be able to do something for the good
people in trouble over the water;' and, so saying,
nodding to a groom, who, advancing, held his cob,
the gentleman dismounted, and approaching Sybil with
great courtesy, said, ' 1 think we ought all of us to
know each other. Lady Joan and myself had once
the pleasure of meeting you, 1 think, at Mr. TralTord's.
It is a long time ago, but,' he added in a subdued
tone, 'you are not a person to forget.'

Sybil was insensible to Mr. Mountchesney's gal-
lantry but, alarmed and perplexed, she yielded to the
representations of himself and Lady Joan, and got into
the phaeton. Turning from the river, they pursued a
road which, alter a short progress, entered the park,
Mr. Mountchesney cantering on before them, Harold
following. They took their way for about a mile
through a richly-wooded demesne, Lady Joan address-
ing many observations with great kindness to Sybil,

i66 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

and frequently endeavouring, though in vain, to divert
her agitated thoughts, till they at length emerged
from the more covered parts into extensive lawns,
while on a rising ground, which they rapidly ap-
proached, rose Mowbray Castle, a modern castellated
building, raised in a style not remarkable for its taste
or correctness, but vast, grand, and imposing.

'And now,' said Mr. Mountchesney, riding up to
them and addressing Sybil, 'I will send off a scout
immediately for news of your father. In the mean-
time let us believe the best!' Sybil thanked him with
cordiality, and then she entered Mowbray Castle.

CHAPTER LXX.

The Fall of Mowbray Castle.
I

N LESS than an hour after the ar-
rival of Sybil at Mowbray Castle,
the scout that Mr. Mountchesney
had sent off to gather news re-
turned, and with intelligence of
the triumph of Gerard's eloquence,
that all had ended happily, and that the people were
dispersing, and returning to the town-.

Kind as was the reception accorded to Sybil by
Lady de Mowbray and her daughter, on her arrival,
the remembrance of the perilous position of her father
had totally disqualified her from responding to their
advances. Acquainted with the cause of her anxiety
and depression, and sympathising with womanly soft-
ness with her distress, nothing could be more con-
siderate than their behaviour. It touched Sybil much,
and she regretted the harsh thoughts that irresistible
circumstances had forced her to cherish respecting
persons who, now that she saw them in their do-
mestic and unaffected hour, had apparently many
qualities to conciliate and to charm. When the good
news arrived of her father's safety, and safety achieved
in a manner so flattering to a daughter's pride, it

(167)

i68 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

came upon a heart predisposed to warmth and kind-
ness, and all her feelings opened. The tears stood in
her beautiful eyes, and they were tears not only of
tenderness but gratitude. Fortunately Lord de Mow-
bray was at the moment absent, and, as the question
of the controverted inheritance was a secret to every
member of the family except himself, the name of
Gerard excited no invidious sensation in the circle.
Sybil was willing to please, and to be pleased; every
one was captivated by her beauty, her grace, her
picturesque expression, and sweet simplicity. Lady
de Mowbray serenely smiled, and frequently, when
unobserved, viewed her through her eye-glass. Lady
Joan, much softened by marriage, would show her
the castle; Lady Maud was in ecstasies with all that
Sybil said or did; while Mr. Mountchesney, who had
thought of little else but Sybil ever since Lady Maud's
report of her seraphic singing, and who had not let
four-and-twenty hours go by without discovering,
with all the practised art of St. James's, the name
and residence of the unknown fair, flattered himself
he was making great play, when Sybil, moved by his
kindness, distinguished him by frequent notice. They
had viewed the castle, they were in the music-room,
Sybil had been prevailed upon, though with reluctance,
to sing. Some Spanish church music which she found
there called forth all her powers; all was happiness,
delight, rapture, Lady Maud in a frenzy of friendship,
Mr. Mountchesney convinced that the country in
August might be delightful, and Lady Joan almost
gay because Alfred was pleased. Lady de Mowbray
had been left in her boudoir with the Morning Post.
Sybil had just finished a ravishing air, there was a
murmur of luncheon, when suddenly Harold, who had

SYBIL

169

persisted in following his mistress, and whom Mr.
Mountchesney had gallantly introduced into the music-
room, rose, and coming forward from the corner in
which he reposed, barked violently.

'How now!' said Mr. Mountchesney.

'Harold!' said Sybil in a tone of remonstrance and
surprise.

But the dog not only continued to bark, but even
howled. At this moment the groom of the chambers
entered the room abruptly, and with a face of mystery
said that he wished to speak with Mr. Mountchesney.
That gentleman immediately withdrew. He was ab-
sent some little time, the dog very restless, Lady Joan
becoming disquieted, when he returned. His changed
air struck the vigilant eye of his wife.

* What has happened, Alfred ? ' she said.

'Oh! don't be alarmed,' he replied with an obvious
affectation of ease. 'There are some troublesome
people in the park; stragglers, I suppose, from the
rioters. The gate-keeper ought not to have let them
pass. I have given directions to Bentley what to do,
if they come to the castle.'

'Let us go to mamma,' said Lady Joan.

And they were all about leaving the music-room,
when a servant came running in and called out, ' Mr.
Bentley told me to say, sir, they are in sight.'

'Very well,' said Mr. Mountchesney in a calm tone,
but changing colour. 'You had better go to your
mamma, Joan, and take Maud and our friend with
youv. I will stay below for a while,' and, notwith-
standing the remonstrances of his wife, Mr. Mount-
chesney went to the hall.

*I don't know what to do, sir,' said the house-
steward. 'They are a very strong party.'

I70 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

* Close all the windows, lock and bar all the doors/
said Mr. Mountchesney. M am frightened,' he con-
tinued, ' about your lord. I fear he may fall in with
these people.'

*My lord is at Mowbray,' said Mr. Bentley. 'He
must have heard of this mob there.'

And now, emerging from the plantations and en-
tering on the lawns, the force and description of the
invading party were easier to distinguish. They were
numerous, though consisting of only a section of the
original expedition, for Gerard had collected a great
portion of the Mowbray men, and they preferred be-
ing under his command to following a stranger, whom
they did not much like, on a somewhat hcentious ad-
venture of which their natural leader disapproved.
The invading section, therefore, were principally com-
posed of Hell-cats, though, singular enough, Morley,
of all men in the world, accompanied them, attended
by Devilsdust, Dandy Mick, and others of that youth-
ful class of which these last were the idols and he-
roes. There were perhaps eighteen hundred or two
thousand persons armed with bars and bludgeons, in
general a grimy crew, whose dress and appearance
revealed the kind of labour to which they were ac-
customed. The difference between them and the
minority of Mowbray operatives was instantly recog-
nisable.

When they perceived the castle, this dreadful band
gave a ferocious shout. Lady de Mowbray showed
blood; she was composed and courageous. She ob-
served the mob from the window, and reassuring her
daughters and Sybil, she said she would go down and
speak to them. She was on the point of leaving the
room with this object, when Mr. Mountchesney en-

SYBIL

171

tered, and, hearing her purpose, dissuaded her from
attempting it. 'Leave all to me,' he said; 'and make
yourselves quite easy; they will go away; I am cer-
tain they will go away;' and he again quitted them.

In the meantime. Lady de Mowbray and her
friends observed the proceedings below. When the
main body had advanced within a few hundred yards
of the castle, they halted, and seated themselves on
the turf. This step reassured the garrison: it was
generally held to indicate that the intentions of the
invaders were not of a very settled or hostile char-
acter; that they had visited the place probably in a
spirit of frolic, and if met with tact and civility might
ultimately be induced to retire from it without much
annoyance. This was evidently the opinion of Mr.
Mountchesney from the first, and when an uncouth
being, on a white mule, attended by twenty or thirty
miners, advanced to the castle, and asked for Lord
de Mowbray, Mr. Mountchesney met them with kind-
ness, saying he regretted his father-in-law was absent,
expressed his readiness to represent him, and inquired
their pleasure. His courteous bearing evidently had
an influence on the Bishop, who, dropping his usual
brutal tone, mumbled something about his wish to
drink Lord de Mowbray's health.

'You shall all drink his health,' said Mr. Mount-
chesney, humouring him, and he gave directions that
a couple of barrels of ale should be broached in the
park before the castle. The Bishop was pleased, the
people were in good humour, some men began dan-
cing; it seemed that the cloud had blown over, and Mr.
Mountchesney sent up a bulletin to Lady de Mowbray,
that all danger was past, and that he hoped in ten
minutes they would all have disappeared.

172 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

The ten minutes had expired: the Bishop was still
drinking ale, and Mr. Mountchesney still making civil
speeches, and keeping his immediate attendance in
humour.

'I wish they would go,' said Lady de Mowbray.
'How wonderfully Alfred has managed them,' said
Lady Joan.

'After all,' said Lady Maud, *it must be confessed

that the people ' Her sentence was interrupted;

Harold who had been shut out, but who had lain
down without quietly, though moaning at intervals,
now sprang at the door with so much force that it
trembled on its hinges, while the dog again barked
with renewed violence. Sybil went to him: he
seized her dress with his teeth, and would have
pulled her away. Suddenly uncouth and mysterious
sounds were heard, there was a loud shriek, the
gong in the hall thundered, the great alarum-bell of
the tower sounded without, and the housekeeper,
followed by the female domestics, rushed into the
room.

*0h! my lady, my lady,' they all exclaimed at
the same time, 'the Hell-cats are breaking into the
castle.'

Before any one of the terrified company could re-
ply, the voice of Mr. Mountchesney was heard. He
was approaching them; he was no longer calm.
He hurried into the room; he was pale, evidently
greatly alarmed. 'I have come to you,' he said;
'these fellows have got in below. While there is
time, and we can manage them, you must leave the
place.*

M am ready for anything,' said Lady de Mowbray.
Lady Joan and Lady Maud wrung^ their hands in

SYBIL

173

frantic terror. Sybil, very pale, said, * Let me go
down; I may know some of these men.'

'No, no,' said Mr. Mountchesney. 'They are not
Mowbray people. It would not be safe.'

Dreadful sounds were now heard; a blending of
shouts and oaths, and hideous merriment. Their
hearts trembled.

'The mob are in the house, sir,' called out Mr.
Bentley, rushing up to them. 'They say they will
see everything.'

'Let them see everything,' said Lady de Mowbray,
' but make a condition that they first let us go. Try,
Alfred, try to manage them before they are utterly
ungovernable.'

Mr. Mountchesney again left them on this des-
perate mission. Lady de Mowbray and all the women
remained in the chamber. Not a word was spoken;
the silence was complete. Even the maidservants had
ceased to sigh and sob. A feeling something like
desperation was stealing over them.

The dreadful sounds continued, increased. They
seemed to approach nearer. It was impossible to
distinguish a word, and yet their import was fright-
ful and ferocious.

'Lord have mercy on us all!' exclaimed the house-
keeper, unable to refrain herself. The maids began
to cry.

After an absence of about five minutes, Mr. Mount-
chesney again hurried in, and, leading away Lady de
Mowbray, he said, 'You haven't a moment to lose.
Follow us!'

There was a general rush, and, following Mr.
Mountchesney, they passed rapidly through several
apartments, the fearful noises every moment increas-

174 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

ing, until they reached the library, which opened on
the terrace. The windows were broken, the terrace
crowded with people, several of the mob were in
the room, even Lady de Mowbray cried out and fell
back.

'Come on,' said Mr. Mountchesney. 'The mob
have possession of the castle. It is our only chance.'

'But the mob are here,' said Lady de Mowbray,
much terrified.

'I see some Mowbray faces,' said Sybil, springing
forward, with a flashing eye and a glowing cheek.
' Bamford and Samuel Carr: Bamford, if you be my
father's friend, aid us now; and Samuel Carr, I was
with your mother this morning: did she think I
should meet her son thus No, you shall not enter,'
said Sybil, advancing. They recognised her, they
paused. '1 know you, Couchman; you told us once
at the convent that we might summon you in our
need. 1 summon you now. Oh, men, men!' she
exclaimed, clasping her hands, ' What is this ? Are
you led away by strangers to such deeds ? Why, 1
know you all! You came here to aid, I am sure, and
not to harm. Guard these ladies, save them from
these foreigners! There's Butler, he'll go with us,
and Godfrey Wells. Shall it be said you let your
neighbours be plundered and assailed by strangers
and never try to shield them ? Now, my good friends,
I entreat, I adjure you, Butler, Wells, Couchman,
what would Walter Gerard say, your friend that you
have so often followed, if he saw this?'

'Gerard for ever!' shouted Couchman.

'Gerard for ever!' exclaimed a hundred voices.

"Tis his blessed daughter,' said others; "tis Sybil,
our angel Sybil!'

SYBIL

175

'Stand by Sybil Gerard.'

Sybil had made her way upon the terrace, and had
collected around her a knot of stout followers, who,
whatever may have been their original motive, were
now resolved to do her bidding. The object of Mr.
Mountchesney was to descend the side-step of the
terrace and gain the flower-garden, whence there
were means of escape. But the throng was still too
fierce to permit Lady de Mowbray and her compan-
ions to attempt the passage, and all that Sybil and
her followers could at present do, was to keep the
mob from entering the library, and to exert them-
selves to obtain fresh recruits.

At this moment an unexpected aid arrived.

'Keep back there! 1 call upon you in the name
of God to keep back!' exclaimed a voice of one
struggling and communing with the rioters, a voice
which all immediately recognised. It was that of Mr.
St. Lys. 'Charles Gardner, I have been your friend.
The aid I gave yooi was often supplied to me by this
house. Why are you here ? '

'For no evil purpose, Mr. St. Lys. I came, as
others did, to see what was going on.'

'Then you see a deed of darkness. Struggle
against it. Aid me and Philip Warner in this work;
it will support you at the judgment. Tressel, Tressel,
stand by me and Warner. That's good, that's right.
And you too, Daventry, and you, and you. I knew
you would wash your hands of this fell deed. It is
not Mowbray men would do this. That's right, that's
right! Form a band. Good again. There's not a man
that joins us now who does not make a friend for life.'

Mr. St. Lys had been in the neighbourhood when
the news of the visit of the mob to the castle reached

176 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

him. He anticipated the perilous consequences. He
hastened immediately to the scene of action. He had
met Warner, the handloom weaver, in his way, and
enHsted his powerful influence with the people on his
side.

The respective bands of Sybil and Mr. St. Lys in
time contrived to join. Their numbers were no longer
contemptible; they were animated by the words and
presence of their leaders: St. Lys struggling in their
midst; Sybil maintaining her position on the terrace,
and inciting all around her to courage and energy.

The multitude were kept back, the passage to the
side-steps of the terrace was clear.

*Now,' said Sybil, and she encouraged Lady de
Mowbray, her daughters, and followers to advance.
It was a fearful struggle to maintain the communica-
tion, but it was a successful one. They proceeded
breathless and trembling, until they reached what was
commonly called the grotto, but which was, in fact,
a subterranean way excavated through a hill and lead-
ing to the bank of the river where there were boats.
The entrance of this tunnel was guarded by an iron
gate, and Mr. Mountchesney had secured the key.
The gate was opened, Warner and his friends made
almost superhuman efforts at this moment to keep
back the multitude; Lady de Mowbray and her daugh-
ters had passed through, when there came one of
those violent undulations usual in mobs, and which
was occasioned by a sudden influx of persons at-
tracted by what was occurring, and Sybil and those
who immediately surrounded her and were guarding
the retreat were carried far away. The gate was
closed, the rest of the party had passed, but Sybil
was left, and found herself entirely among strangers.

SYBIL

In the meantime the castle was in the possession
of the mob. The first great rush was to the cellars:
the Bishop himself headed this onset, nor did he rest
until he was seated among the prime bins of the
noble proprietor. This was not a crisis of corkscrews;
the heads of the bottles were knocked off with the
same promptitude and dexterity as if they were shell-
ing nuts or decapitating shrimps; the choicest wines
of Christendom were poured down the thirsty throats
that ale and spirits alone had hitherto stimulated:
Tummas was swallowing Burgundy; Master Nixon
had got hold of a batch of Tokay; while the Bishop
himself, seated on the ground and leaning against an
arch, the long perspective of the cellars full of rapa-
cious figures brandishing bottles and torches, alter-
nately quaffed some very old Port and some Madeira
of many voyages, and was making up his mind as to
their respective and relative merits.

While the cellars and offices were thus occupied,
bands were parading the gorgeous saloons and gaz-
ing with wonderment on their decorations and furni-
ture. Some grimy ruffians had thrown themselves
with disdainful delight on the satin couches and the
state beds: others rifled the cabinets with an idea
that they must be full of money, and finding little in
their way, had strewn their contents, papers and
books, and works of art, over the floors of the apart-
ments; sometimes a band who had escaped from be-
low with booty came up to consummate their orgies
in the magnificence of the dwelling-rooms. Among
these were Nixon and his friends, who stared at the
pictures and stood before the tall mirrors with still
greater astonishment. Indeed, many of them had
never seen an ordinary looking-glass in their lives.

15 B. D.— 12

178 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

"Tis Natur'!' said Master Nixon, surveying him-
self, and turning to Juggins.

Many of these last grew frantic, and finished their
debauch by the destruction of everything around them.

But while these scenes of brutal riot were occur-
ring, there was one select but resolute band who
shared in none of these excesses. Morley, followed
by half a dozen Mowbray lads and two chosen Hell-
cats, leaving all the confusion below, had ascended
the great staircase, traced his way down a corridor
to the winding steps of the Round Tower, and, sup-
phed with the necessary instruments, had forced his
entrance into the muniment room of the castle. It
was a circular chamber lined with tall fire-proof cases.
These might have presented invincible obstacles to
any other than the pupils of Bishop Hatton; as it
was, in some instances the locks, in others the hinges,
yielded in time, though after prolonged efforts, to the
resources of their art; and while Dandy Mick and his
friends kept watch at the entrance, Morley and
Devilsdust proceeded to examine the contents of the
cases: piles of parchment deeds, bundles of papers
arranged and docketed, many boxes of various size
and materials; but the desired object was not visible.
A baffled expression came over the face of Morley;
he paused for an instant in his labours. The thought
of how much he had sacrificed for this, and only to
fail, came upon him: upon him, the votary of moral
power in the midst of havoc which he had organised
and stimulated. He cursed Baptist Hatton in his
heart.

'The knaves have destroyed them,' said Devilsdust.
' I thought how it would be. They never would run
the chance of a son of labour being lord of all this.*

SYBIL

179

Some of the cases were very deep, and they had
hitherto in general, in order to save time, proved
their contents with an iron rod. Now Morley, with a
desperate air, mounting on some steps that were in
the room, commenced formally rifling the cases and
throwing their contents on the floor; it was soon
strewn with deeds and papers and boxes which he
and Devilsdust the moment they had glanced at them
hurled away. At length, when all hope seemed to
have vanished, clearing a case which at first appeared
only to contain papers, Morley struck something at
its back; he sprang forward with outstretched arm,
his body was half hid in the cabinet, and he pulled
out with triumphant exultation the box, painted blue
and blazoned with the arms of Valence. It was nei-
ther large nor heavy; he held it out to Devilsdust
without saying a word, and Morley, descending the
steps, sat down for a moment on a pile of deeds and
folded his arms.

At this juncture the discharge of musketry was
heard.

'Hilloa!' said Devilsdust with a queer expression.
Morley started from his seat. Dandy Mick rushed into
the room. 'Troops, troops! there are troops here!'
he exclaimed.

'Let us descend,' said Morley. 'In the confusion
we may escape. I will take the box,' and they left
the muniment room.

One of their party, whom Mick had sent forward
to reconnoitre, fell back upon them. 'They are not
troops,' he said; 'they are yeomanry; they are firing
away and cutting every one down. They have
cleared the ground-floor of the castle, and are in com-
plete possession below. We cannot escape this way.'

i8o BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Those accursed locks!' said Morley, clenching
the box. *Time has beat us. Let us see, let us see.'
He ran back into the muniment room and examined
the egress from the window. It was just possible
for any one very lithe and nimble to vault upon the
roof of the less elevated part of the castle. Revolving
this, another scout rushed in and said, ' Comrades,
they are here I they are ascending the stairs.'

Morley stamped on the ground with rage and de-
spair. Then seizing Mick by the hand he said, 'You
see this window; can you by any means reach that
roof?*

'One may as well lose one's neck that way,' said
Mick. M'll try.'

' Off! If you land I will throw this box after you.
Now mind; take it to the convent at Mowbray, and
deliver it yourself from me to Sybil Gerard. It is
light; there are only papers in it; but they will give
her her own again, and she will not forget you.'

'Never mind that,' said Mick. 'I only wish I
may live to see her.'

The tramp of the ascending troopers was heard.

'Good-bye, my hearties,' said Mick, and he made
the spring. He seemed stunned, but he might re-
cover. Morley watched him and flung the box.

'And now,' he said, drawing a pistol, 'we may
fight our way yet. I'll shoot the first man who en-
ters, and then you must rush on with your bludgeons.'

The force that had so unexpectedly arrived at this
scene of devastation was a troop of the yeomanry
regiment of Lord Marney. The strike in Lancashire
and the revolt in the mining districts had so com-
pletely drained this county of military, that the Lord
Lieutenant had insisted on Lord Marney quitting his

SYBIL

i8i

agricultural neighbourhood, and quartering himself in
the region of factories. Within the last two days he
had fixed his head-quarters at a large manufacturing
town within ten miles of Mowbray, and a despatch
on Sunday evening from the mayor of that town
having reached him, apprising him of the invasion of
the miners, Egremont had received orders to march
with his troop there on the following morning.

Egremont had not departed more than two hours,
when the horsemen whom Sybil had met arrived at
Lord Marney's head-quarters, bringing a most alarm-
ing and exaggerated report of the insurrection and of
the havoc that was probably impending. Lord Mar-
ney, being of opinion that Egremont's forces were by
no means equal to the occasion, resolved therefore at
once to set out for Mowbray with his own troop.
Crossing Mowbray Moor, he encountered a great mul-
titude, now headed for purposes of peace by Walter
Gerard. His mind inflamed by the accounts he had
received, and hating at all times any popular demon-
stration, his lordship resolved without inquiry or
preparation immediately to disperse them. The Riot
Act was read with the rapidity with which grace is
sometimes said at the head of a public table, a cere-
mony of which none but the performer and his im-
mediate friends are conscious. The people were fired
on and sabred. The indignant spirit of Gerard re-
sisted; he struck down a trooper to the earth, and
incited those about him not to yield. The father of
Sybil was picked out, the real friend and champion
of the people, and shot dead. Instantly arose a groan
which almost quelled the spirit of Lord Marney,
though armed and at the head of armed men. The
people who before this were in general scared and

i82 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

dispersing, ready indeed to fly in all directions, no
sooner saw their beloved leader fall, than a feeling of
frenzy came over them. They defied the troopers,
though themselves armed only with stones and bludg-
eons; they rushed at the horsemen and tore them
from their saddles, while a shower of stones rattled
on the helmet of Lord Marney and seemed never to
cease. In vain the men around him charged the in-
furiated throng; the people returned to their prey,
nor did they rest until Lord Marney fell lifeless on
Mowbray Moor, literally stoned to death.

These disastrous events of course occurred at a
subsequent period of the day to that on which half-
a-dozen troopers were ascending the staircase of the
Round Tower of Mowbray Castle. The distracted
house-steward of Lord de Mowbray had met and im-
pressed upon them, now that the castle was once
more in their possession, the expediency of securing
the muniment room, for Mr. Bentley had witnessed
the ominous ascent of Morley and his companions to
that important chamber.

Morley and his companions had taken up an ad-
vantageous position at the head of the staircase.

* Surrender,' said the commander of the yeomanry.
'Resistance is useless.'

Morley presented his pistol, but, before he could
pull the trigger, a shot from a trooper in the rear,
and who from his position could well observe the in-
tention of Morley, struck Stephen in the breast; still
he fired but aimless and without effect. The troopers
pushed on; Morley, fainting, fell back with his friends,
who were frightened, except Devilsdust, who had
struck hard and well, and who in turn had been
slightly sabred. The yeomanry entered the muniment

SYBIL

room almost at the same time as their foes, leaving
Devilsdust behind them, who had fallen, and who,
cursing the capitalist who had wounded him, man-
aged to escape. Morley fell when he had regained
the room. The rest surrendered.

'Morley! Stephen Morley I' exclaimed the com-
mander of the yeomanry. 'You, you here!'

'Yes. I am sped,' he said in a faint voice. 'No,
no succour. It is useless, and I desire none. Why 1
am here is a mystery; let it remain so. The world
will misjudge me; the man of peace they will say
was a hypocrite. The world will be wrong, as it al-
ways is. Death is bitter,' he said, with a deep sigh,
and speaking with great difficulty, 'more bitter from
you; but just. We have struggled together before,
Egremont. I thought I had scotched you then, but
you escaped. Our lives have been a struggle since
we first met. Your star has controlled mine; and now
I feel I have sacrificed life and fame, dying men
prophesy, for your profit and honour. O Sybil!' and
with this name, half-sighed upon his lips, the votary
of moral power and the apostle of community ceased
to exist.

Meanwhile Sybil, separated from her friends, who
had made their escape through the grotto, was left
with Harold only for her protector, for she had lost
even Warner in the crush. She looked around in vain
for some Mowbray face that she could recognise, but
after some fruitless research, a loud shouting in the
distance, followed by the firing of musketry, so terri-
fied all around her, that the mob in her immediate
neighbourhood dispersed as if by magic; and she re-
mained alone crouching in a corner of the flower-
garden, while dreadful shouts and shrieks and yells

i84 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

resounded from the distance, with occasional firing,
the smoke floating to her retieat. She could see from
where she stood the multitude flying about the park
in all directions, and therefore she thought it best to
remain in her present position and await the terrible
events. She concluded that some military force had
arrived and hoped that if she could maintain her
present post, the extreme danger might pass. But
while she indulged in these hopes, a dark cloud of
smoke came descending in the garden. It could not
be produced by musket or carbine: its volume was
too heavy even for ordnance: and in a moment there
were sparks mingled with its black form; and then
the shouting and shrieking which had in some degree
subsided, suddenly broke out again with increased
force and wildness. The castle was on fire.

Whether from heedlessness or from insane inten-
tion, for the deed sealed their own doom, the drunken
Hell-cats, brandishing their torches, while they rifled
the cellars and examined every closet and corner of
the offices, had set fire to the lower part of the
building, and the flames, that had for some time
burnt unseen, had now gained the principal chambers.
The Bishop was lying senseless in the main cellar,
surrounded by his chief officers in the same state: in-
deed the whole of the basement was covered with
the recumbent figures of Hell-cats, as black and as
thick as torpid flies during the last days of their
career. The funeral pile of the children of Woden
was a sumptuous one; it was prepared and lighted
by themselves; and the flame that, rising from the
keep of Mowbray, announced to the startled country
that in a short hour the splendid mimicry of Norman
rule would cease to exist, told also the pitiless fate of

SYBIL

i8s

the ruthless savage, who, with analogous pretension,
had presumed to style himself the Liberator of the
people.

The clouds of smoke, the tongues of flame that
now began to mingle with them, the multitude whom
this new incident and impending catastrophe sum-
moned back to the scene, forced Sybil to leave the
garden and enter the park. It was in vain she en-
deavoured to gain some part less frequented than the
rest, and to make her way unobserved. Suddenly a
band of drunken ruffians, with shouts and oaths, sur-
rounded her; she shrieked in frantic terror; Harold
sprung at the throat of the foremost; another ad-
vanced, Harold left his present prey and attacked the
new assailant. The brave dog did wonders, but the
odds were fearful; and the men had bludgeons, were
enraged, and had already wounded him. One ruffian
had grasped the arm of Sybil, another had clenched
her garments, when an olficer, covered with dust and
gore, sabre in hand, jumped from the terrace, and
hurried to the rescue. He cut down one man, thrust
away another, and, placing his left arm round Sybil,
he defended her with his sword, while Harold, now
become furious, flew from man to man, and protected
her on the other side. Her assailants were routed,
they made a staggering flight! the officer turned
round and pressed Sybil to his heart.

'We will never part again,' said Egremont.

* Never!' murmured Sybil.

CHAPTER LXXI.

The Lady of Mowbray.

T WAS the spring of last year, and
I Lady Bardolf was making a morn-
ing visit to Lady St. Julians.

*I heard they were to be at
Lady Palmerston's last night/
said Lady St. Julians.

'No,' said Lady Bardolf shaking her head, 'they
make their first appearance at Deloraine House. We
meet there on Thursday, 1 know.'

'Well, I must say,' said Lady St. Julians, 'that I
am curious to see her.'

'Lord Valentine met them last year at Naples.'

'And what does he say of her.^'

' Oh ! he raves ! '

'What a romantic history! And what a fortunate
man is Lord Marney. If one could only have fore-
seen events!' exclaimed Lady St. Julians. 'He was
always a favourite of mine, though. But still 1
thought his brother was the very last person who
ever would die. He was so very hard!'

'I fear Lord Marney is entirely lost to us,' said
Lady Bardolf, looking very solemn.

'Ah! he always had a twist,' said Lady St. Julians,
'and used to breakfast with that horrid Mr. Trench-

(i86)

SYBIL

187

ard, and do that sort of things. But still, with his
immense fortune, I should think he would become
rational.'

'You may well say immense,' said Lady Bardolf.
' Mr. Ormsby, and there is no better judge of another
man's income, says there are not three peers in the
kingdom who have so much a year clear.'

' They say the Mowbray estate is forty thousand a
year,' said Lady St. Julians. 'Poor Lady de Mowbray!
1 understand that Mr. Mountchesney has resolved not
to appeal against the verdict.'

'You know he has not the shadow of a chance,'
said Lady Bardolf. 'Ah! what changes we have seen
in that family! They say the writ of right killed
poor Lord de Mowbray, but to my mind he never
recovered the burning of the castle. We went over
to them directly, and 1 never saw a man so cut up.
We wanted them to come to us at Firebrace, but he
said he should leave the county immediately. I re-
member Lord^ Bardolf mentioning to me that he looked
like a dying man.'

'Well, 1 must say,' said Lady St. Julians, rallying
as it were from a fit of abstraction, 'that I am most
curious to see Lady Marney.'

The reader will infer from this conversation, that
Dandy Mick, in spite of his stunning fall, and all
dangers which awaited him on his recovery, had con-
trived in spite of fire and flame, sabre and carbine,
trampling troopers, and plundering mobs, to reach
the convent of Mowbray with the box of papers.
There he inquired for Sybil, in whose hands, and
whose hands alone, he was enjoined to deposit them.
She was still absent, but, faithful to his instructions,
Mick would deliver his charge to none other, and,

i88 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

exhausted by the fatigues of the terrible day, he re-
mained in the courtyard of the convent, lying down
with the box for his pillow, until Sybil, under the
protection of Egremont, herself returned. Then he
fulfilled his mission. Sybil was too agitated at the
moment to perceive all its import, but she dehvered
the box into the custody of Egremont, who desiring
Mick to follow him to his hotel, bade farewell to
Sybil, who, equally with himself, was then ignorant
of the fatal encounter on Mowbray Moor.

We must drop a veil over the anguish which its
inevitable and speedy revelation brought to the
daughter of Gerard. Her love for her father was one
of those profound emotions which seemed to form a
constituent part of her existence. She remained for a
long period in helpless woe, soothed only by the
sacred cares of Ursula. There was another mourner
in this season of sorrow who must not be forgotten;
and that was Lady Marney. All that tenderness and
the most considerate thought could devise to soften
sorrow, and reconcile her to a change of hfe which at
the first has in it something depressing, were ex-
tended by Egremont to Arabella. He supplied in an
instant every arrangement which had been neglected
by his brother, but which could secure her con-
venience, and tend to her happiness. Between Mar-
ney Abbey, where he insisted for the present that
Arabella should reside, and Mowbray, Egremont
passed his life for many months, until, by some
management which we need not trace or analyse,
Lady Marney came over one day to the convent at
Mowbray, and carried back Sybil to Marney Abbey,
never again to quit it until on her bridal day, when
the Earl and Countess of Marney departed for Italy,

SYBIL

where they passed nearly a year, and from which
they had just returned at the commencement of this
chapter.

During the previous period, however, many im-
portant events had occurred. Lord Marney had placed
himself in communication with Mr. Hatton, who had
soon become acquainted with all that had occurred
in the muniment room of Mowbray Castle. The re-
sult was not what he had once anticipated; but for
him it was not without some compensatory circum-
stances. True, another and an unexpected rival had
stepped on the stage, with whom it was vain to
cope; but the idea that he had deprived Sybil of her
inheritance, had, ever since he had become acquainted
with her, been the plague-spot of Hatton's life, and
there was nothing that he desired more ardently than
to see her restored to her rights, and to be instru-
mental in that restoration. How successful he was
in pursuing her claim, the reader has already learnt.

Dandy Mick was rewarded for all the dangers he
had encountered in the service of Sybil, and what he
conceived was the vindication of popular rights.
Lord Marney established him in business, and Mick
took Devilsdust for a partner. Devilsdust, having
thus obtained a position in society, and become a
capitalist, thought it but a due homage to the social
decencies to assume a decorous appellation, and he
called himself by the name of the town where he
was born. The firm of Radley, Mowbray, and Co.
is a rising one; and will probably furnish in time a
crop of members of Parliament and peers of the
realm. Devilsdust married Caroline, and Mrs. Mow-
bray became a great favourite. She was always, per-
haps, a little too fond of junketing, but she had a

I90 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

sweet temper and a gay spirit, and sustained her
husband in the agonies of a great speculation, or
the despair of glutted markets. Julia became Mrs.
Radley, and was much esteemed: no one could be-
have better. She was more orderly than Caroline,
and exactly suited Mick, who wanted a person near
him of decision and method. As for Harriet, she is
not yet married. Though pretty and clever, she is
selfish, and a screw. She has saved a good deal, and
has a considerable sum in the savings' bank, but,
like many heiresses, she cannot bring her mind to
share her money with another. The great measures
of Sir Robert Peel, which produced three good har-
vests, have entirely revived trade at Mowbray. The
Temple is again open, newly-painted, and re-bur-
nished, and Chaffing Jack has of course 'rallied,'
while good Mrs. Carey still gossips with her neigh-
bours round her well-stored stall, and tells wonder-
ful stories of the great stick-out and riots of '42.

And thus I conclude the last page of a work
which, though its form be light and unpretending,
would yet aspire to suggest to its readers some con-
siderations of a very opposite character. A year ago,
I presumed to offer to the public some volumes that
aimed at calling their attention to the state of our
poHtical parties; their origin, their history, their pres-
ent position. In an age of political infidelity, of mean
passions, and petty thoughts, I would have impressed
upon the rising race not to despair, but to seek
in a right understanding of the history of their coun-
try and in the energies of heroic youth, the elements
of national welfare. The present work advances an-
other step in the same emprise. From the state of
parties it now would draw public thought to the state

SYBIL

191

of the people whom those parties for two centuries
have governed. The comprehension and the cure of
this greater theme depend upon the same agencies as
the first: it is the past alone that can explain the
present, and it is youth alone that can mould the reme-
dial future. The written history of our country for the
last ten reigns has been a mere phantasma, giving
to the origin and consequence of public transactions
a character and colour in every respect dissimilar to
their natural form and hue. In this mighty mystery
all thoughts and things have assumed an aspect and
title contrary to their real quality and style: Oli-
garchy has been called liberty; an exclusive priest-
hood has been christened a National Church; sover-
eignty has been the title of something that has had
no dominion, while absolute power has been wielded
by those who profess themselves the servants of the
people. In the selfish strife of factions, two great
existences have been blotted out of the history of
England, the monarch and the multitude; as the
power of the crown has diminished, the privileges of
the people have disappeared; till at length the sceptre
has become a pageant, and its subject has degen-
erated again into a serf.

It is nearly fourteen years ago, in the popular
frenzy of a mean and selfish revolution which emanci-
pated neither the crown nor the people, that I first
took the occasion to intimate, and then to develop,
to the first assembly of my countrymen that I ever
had the honour to address, these convictions. They
have been misunderstood, as is ever for a season the
fate of truth, and they have obtained for their pro-
mulgator much misrepresentation, as must ever be
the lot of those who will not follow the beaten track

192 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

of a fallacious custom. But time, that brings all
things, has brought also to the mind of England
some suspicion that the idols they have so long wor-
shipped, and the oracles that have so long deluded
them, are not the true ones. There is a whisper ris-
rising in this country that loyalty is not a phrase,
faith not a delusion, and popular liberty something
more diffusive and substantial than the profane ex-
ercise of the sacred rights of sovereignty by political
classes.

That we may live to see England once more
possess a free monarchy, and a privileged and pros-
perous people, is my prayer; that these great conse-
quences can only be brought about by the energy
and devotion of our youth is my persuasion. We
live in an age when to be young and to be indif-
ferent can be no longer synonymous. We must pre-
pare for the coming hour. The claims of the future
are represented by suffering millions; and the youth
of a nation are the trustees of posterity.

FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING BY CLARE VICTOR DWIGGINS

The duchess opened the library door, where she
had been informed she should find
Lord Montacute.

(See page 72 1

TANCRED

OR

E New Crusade

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

EARL OF BEACONSFIELD

VOLUME L

M. WALTER DUNNE
NEW YORK AND LONDON

Copyright, 1904, by

M. WALTER DUNNE

Entered at Stationers^ Hall, London

CONTENTS

TANCRED
Chapter I. page

A MATTER OF IMPORTANCE I

Chapter II.

THE house of BELLAMONT ..... II

Chapter III.

A DISCUSSION ABOUT MONEY ..... 24

Chapter IV.

MONTACUTE CASTLE 29

Chapter V.

THE HEIR COMES OF AGE ...... 35

Chapter VI.

A festal day 43

Chapter VII.

A STRANGE PROPOSAL 36

Chapter VIII.

THE DECISION 73

Chapter IX.

TANCRED, the NEW CRUSADER .... 8 1

(V)

vi CONTENTS

Chapter X. page
A VISIONARY . . . . ' 89

Chapter XI.

ADVICE FROM A MAN OF THE WORLD . . 97

Chapter XII.

THE DREAMER ENTERS SOCIETY .... I06

Chapter XIII.

A FEMININE DIPLOMATIST . . . . . . II5

Chapter XIV.

THE CONINGSBYS . . ^ . . . . . 1 26

Chapter XV.

DISENCHANTMENT 1 37

Chapter XVI.

TANCRED RESCUES A LADY IN DISTRESS . 1 45

Chapter XVII.

THE WIZARD OF FORTUNE . , , . . . 1 53

Chapter XVIII.

AN INTERESTING RENCONTRE 1 64

Chapter XIX.

LORD HENRY SYMPATHISES 1 72

Chapter XX.

A MODERN TROUBADOUR . . . . . . 181

Chapter XXI.

sweet sympathy ........ i94

Chapter XXIL

the crusader receives a shock . . . 204

ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING
PAGE

THE DUCHESS OPENED THE LIBRARY DOOR, WHERE
SHE HAD BEEN INFORMED SHE SHOULD FIND
LORD MONTACUTE 72

TANCRED OPENED THE DOOR OF THE CHARIOT. . . 1 52

(Vii)

KEY TO THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
IN TANCRED

Tancred, Lord Montacute .
Duke of Bellamont . . .
Duchess of Bellamont .

Sidonia

Lord Eskdale

Lord Henry Sydney . . .

Mr. Coningsby

Mr. Vavasour

Lady St. Julia7is . . . .
Mr. Guy Flouncey . , .
Mrs. Guy Flouncey . . .

The Author

Duke of Norfolk

Duchess of Norfolk

Baron Lionel Nathan de Rothschild

Lord Lonsdale

Lord John Manners

Lord Littleton

Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord

Houghton )
Lady Jersey
Sir Charles Shackerley
Mrs. Mountjoy Martin

(ix)

TANCRED

O R

THE NEW CRUSADE

CHAPTER I.
A Matter of Importance.

THAT part of the celebrated parish
of St. George which is bounded
on one side by Piccadilly and on
the other by Curzon Street, is a
district of a peculiar character. 'Tis
cluster of small streets of little
houses, frequently intersected by mews, which here
are numerous, and sometimes gradually, rather than
abruptly, terminating in a ramification of those mys-
terious regions. Sometimes a group of courts develops
itself, and you may even chance to find your way
into a small market-place. Those, however, who are
accustomed to connect these hidden residences of the
humble with scenes of misery and characters of vio-
lence, need not apprehend in this district any appeal
to their sympathies, or any shock to their tastes. All

(I)

2 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

is extremely genteel; and there is almost as much re-
pose as in the golden saloons of the contiguous palaces.
At any rate, if there be as much vice, there is as
little crime.

No sight or sound can be seen or heard at any
hour, which could pain the most precise or the most
fastidious. Even if a chance oath may float on the
air from the stable-yard to the lodging of a French
cook, 'tis of the newest fashion, and, if responded to
with less of novel charm, the repartee is at least con-
veyed in the language of the most polite of nations.
They bet upon the Derby in these parts a little, are
interested in Goodwood, which they frequent, have
perhaps, in general, a weakness for play, live highly,
and indulge those passions which luxury and refine-
ment encourage; but that is all.

A policeman would as soon think of reconnoitring
these secluded streets as of walking into a house in
Park Lane or Berkeley Square, to which, in fact, this
population in a great measure belongs. For here re-
side the wives of house-stewards and of butlers, in
tenements furnished by the honest savings of their
husbands, and let in lodgings to increase their swell-
ing incomes; here dwells the retired servant, who
now devotes his practised energies to the occasional
festival, which, with his accumulations in the three
per cents., or in one of the public-houses of the
quarter, secures him at the same time an easy living,
and the casual enjoyment of that great world which
lingers in his memory Here may be found his grace's
coachman, and here his lordship's groom, who keeps
a book and bleeds periodically too speculative foot-
men, by betting odds on his master's horses. But,
above all, it is in this district that the cooks have

TANCRED

3

ever sought a favourite and elegant abode. An air of
stillness and serenity, of exhausted passions and sup-
pressed emotion, rather than of sluggishness and of
dullness, distinguishes this quarter during the day.

When you turn from the vitality and brightness of
Piccadilly, the park, the palace, the terraced mansions,
the sparkling equipages, the cavaliers cantering up the
hill, the swarming multitude, and enter the region of
which we are speaking, the effect is at first almost
unearthly. Not a carriage, not a horseman, scarcely
a passenger; there seems some great and sudden col-
lapse in the metropolitan system, as if a pest had been
announced, or an enemy were expected in alarm by
a vanquished capital. The approach from Curzon
Street has not this effect. Hyde Park has still about
it something of Arcadia. There are woods and
waters, and the occasional illusion of an illimitable
distance of sylvan joyance. The spirit is allured to
gentle thoughts as we wander in what is still really
a lane, and, turning down Stanhope Street, behold
that house which the great Lord Chesterfield tells us,
in one of his letters^ he was 'building among the
fields.' The cawing of the rooks in his gardens sus-
tains the tone of mind, and Curzon Street, after a
long, straggling, sawney course, ceasing to be a thor-
oughfare, and losing itself in the gardens of another
palace, is quite in keeping with all the accessories.

In the night, however, the quarter of which we
are speaking is alive. The manners of the popula-
tion follow those of their masters. They keep late
hours. The banquet and the ball dismiss them to
their homes at a time when the trades of ordinary
regions move in their last sleep, and dream of open-
ing shutters and decking the wmdows of their shops.

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

At night, the chariot whirls round the frequent cor-
ners of these little streets, and the opening valves of
the mews vomit forth their legion of broughams. At
night, too, the footman, taking advantage of a ball at
Holdernesse, or a concert at Lansdowne House, and
knowing that, in either instance, the link-boy will
answer when necessary for his summoned name, ven-
tures to look in at his club, reads the paper, talks of
his master or his mistress, and perhaps throws a
main. The shops of this district, depending almost
entirely for their custom on the classes we have in-
dicated, and kept often by their relations, follow the
order of the place, and are most busy when other
places of business are closed.

A gusty March morning had subsided into a sun-
shiny afternoon, nearly two years ago, when a young
man, slender, above the middle height, with a physi-
ognomy thoughtful yet delicate, his brown hair worn
long, slight whiskers, on his chin a tuft, knocked at
the door of a house in Carrington Street, May Fair.
His mien and his costume denoted a character of the
class of artists. He wore a pair of green trousers,
braided with a black stripe down their sides, puck-
ered towards the waist, yet fitting with considerable
precision to the boot of French leather that enclosed
a well-formed foot. His waistcoat was of maroori
velvet, displaying a steel watch-chain of refined manu-
facture, and a black satin cravat, with a coral
brooch. His bright blue frockcoat was frogged and
braided like his trousers. As the knocker fell from
the primrose-coloured glove that screened his hand,
he uncovered, and passing his fingers rapidly through
his hair, resumed his new silk hat, which he placed
rather on one side of his head.

TANCRED

5

*Ah! Mr. Leander, is it you?' exclaimed a pretty
girl, who opened the door and blushed.

'And how is the good papa, Eugenie? Is he at
home? For I want to see him much.'

*I will show you up to him at once, Mr. Leander,
for he will be very happy to see you. We have
been thinking of hearing of you,' she added, talking
as she ushered her guest up the narrow staircase.
'The good papa has a little cold: 'tis not much, I
hope; caught at Sir Wallinger's, a large dinner; they
would have the kitchen windows open, which spoilt
all the entrees, and papa got a cold; but I think, per-
haps, it is as much vexation as anything else, you
know if anything goes wrong, especially with the
entrees '

'He feels as a great artist must,' said Leander,
finishing her sentence. ' However, I am not sorry at
this moment to find him a prisoner, for I am pressed
to see him. It is only this morning that I have re-
turned from Mr. Coningsby's at HelHngsley: the house
full, forty covers every day, and some judges. One
does not grudge one's labour if we are appreciated,'
added Leander; 'but I have had my troubles. One
of my marmitons has disappointed me: I thought I
had a genius, but on the third day he lost his head;
and had it not been Ah! good papa,' he ex-

claimed, as the door opened, and he came forward
and warmly shook the hand of a portly man, ad-
vanced in middle life, sitting in an easy chair, with a
glass of sugared water by his side, and reading a
French newspaper in his chamber robe, and with
a white cotton nightcap on his head.

'Ah! my child,' said Papa Prevost, 'is it you?
You see me a prisoner; Eugenie has told you; a din-

6

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

ner at a merchant's; dressed in a draught; everything

spoiled, and I ' and sighing, Papa Prevost sipped

his eau sucrSe.

'We have all our troubles,' said Leander, in a con-
soling tone; 'but we will not speak now of vexa-
tions, i have just come from the country; Daubuz
has written to me twice; he was at my house last
night; I found him on my steps this morning. There
is a grand affair on the tapis. The son of the Duke
of Bellamont comes of age at Easter; it is to be a
business of the thousand and one nights; the whole
county to be feasted. Camacho's wedding will do for
the peasantry; roasted oxen, and a capon in every
platter, with some fountains of ale and good Porto.
Our marmitons, too, can easily serve the provincial
noblesse; but there is to be a party at the Castle, of
double cream ; princes of the blood, high relatives and
grandees of the Golden Fleece. The duke's cook is
not equal to the occasion. 'Tis an hereditary chef
who gives dinners of the time of the continental
blockade. They have written to Daubuz to send them
the first artist of the age,' said Leander; 'and,' added
he, with some hesitation, 'Daubuz has written to
me.'

'And he did quite right, my child,' said Prevost,
'for there is not a man in Europe that is your equal.
What do they say ? That Abreu rivals you in flavour,
and that Gaillard has not less invention. But who can
combine gout with new combinations ? 'Tis yourself,
Leander; and there is no question, though you have
only twenty-five years, that you are the chef of the
age.'

'You are always very good to me, sir,' said Le-
ander, bending his head with great respect; 'and 1

TANCRED

7

will not deny that to be famous when you are young
is the fortune of the gods. But we must never for-
get that I had an advantage which Abreu and Gaillard
had not, and that 1 was your pupil.'

M hope that I have not injured you,' said Papa
Prevost, with an air of proud self-content. 'What
you learned from me came at least from a good school.
It is something to have served under Napoleon,' added
Prevost, with the grand air of the Imperial kitchen.
* Had it not been for Waterloo, I should have had the
cross. But the Bourbons and the cooks of the Empire
never could understand each other. They brought
over an emigrant chef, who did not comprehend the
taste of the age. He wished to bring everything back
to the time of the oeil de boetif. When Monsieur
passed my soup of Austerlitz untasted, I knew the old
family was doomed. But we gossip. You wished to
consult me.?'

'I want not only your advice but your assistance.
This affair of the Duke of Bellamont requires all our
energies. I hope you will accompany me; and, in-
deed, we must muster all our forces. It is not to be
denied that there is a want, not only of genius, but
of men, in our art. The cooks are like the civil engi-
neers: since the middle class have taken to giving
dinners, the demand exceeds the supply.'

* There is Andrien,' said Papa Prevost; 'you had
some hopes of him?'

'He is too young; I took him to Hellingsley, and
he lost his head on the third day. I entrusted the
soufflees to him, and, but for the most desperate per-
sonal exertions, all would have been lost. It was an
affair of the bridge of Areola.'

'Ah! mon Dieu I those are moments!' exclaimed

15 B. D.— 14

8 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Prevost. 'Gaillard and Abreu will not serve under
you, eh? And if they would, they could not be
trusted. They would betray you at the tenth hour.'

*What I want are generals of division, not com-
manders-in-chief. Abreu is sufficiently bon gar^on,
but he has taken an engagement with Monsieur de
Sidonia, and is not permitted to go out.'

*With Monsieur de Sidonia! You once thought of
that, my Leander. And what is his salary?'

'Not too much; four hundred and some perqui-
sites. It would not suit me; besides, I will take no
engagement but with a crowned head. But Abreu
likes travelling, and he has his own carriage, which
pleases him.' .

* There are Philippon and Dumoreau,' said Prevost;
'they are very safe.'

'I was thinking of them,' said Leander, 'they are
safe, under you. And there is an Englishman, Smit,
he is chef at Sir Stanley's, but his master is away at
this moment. He has talent.'

'Yourself, four chefs, with your marmitons; it
would do,' said Prevost.

'For the kitchen,' said Leander; 'but who is to
dress the tables?'

'A — h!' exclaimed Papa Prevost, shaking his head.

'Daubuz' head man, Trenton, is the only one I
could trust; and he wants fancy, though his style is
broad and bold. He made a pyramid of pines re-
lieved with grapes, without destroying the outline,
very good, this last week, at Hellingsley. But Tren-
ton has been upset on the railroad, and much injured.
Even if he recover, his hand will tremble so for the
next month that I could have no confidence in him.'

' Perhaps you might find some one at the Duke's?'

TANCRED

9

*Out of the question!' said Leander; M make it
always a condition that the head of every department
shall be appointed by myself. I take Pellerini with
me for the confectionery. How often have I seen the
effect of a first-rate dinner spoiled by a vulgar dessert!
laid flat on the table, for example, or with ornaments
that look as if they had been hired at a pastrycook's:
triumphal arches, and Chinese pagodas, and solitary
pines springing up out of ice-tubs surrounded with
peaches, as if they were in the window of a fruiterer
of Covent Garden.'

'Ah! it is incredible what uneducated people will
do,' said Prevost. *The dressing of the tables was a
department of itself in the Imperial kitchen.'

Mt demands an artist of a high calibre,' said Le-
ander. * I know only one man who realises my idea,
and he is at St. Petersburg. You do not know
Anastase? There is a man! But the Emperor has
him secure. He can scarcely complain, however, since
he is decorated, and has the rank of full colonel.'

*Ah!' said Prevost, mournfully, 'there is no rec-
ognition of genius in this country. What think you
of Vanesse, my child ? He has had a regular educa-
tion.'

*In a bad school: as a pis aller one might put up
with him. But his eternal tiers of bonbons! As if
they were ranged for a supper of the Carnival, and
my guests were going to pelt each other! No, I
could not stand Vanesse, papa.'

'The dressing of the table: 'tis a rare talent,' said
Prevost, mournfully, 'and always was. In the Ipi-
perial kitchen

'Papa,' said Eugenie, opening the door, and put-
ting in her head, 'here is Monsieur Vanillette just

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

come from Brussels. He has brought you a basket
of truffles from Ardennes. I told him you were on
business, but to-night, if you be at home, he could
come.'

' Vanillette ! ' exclaimed Prevost, starting in his
chair, 'our little Vanillette! There is your man, Le-
ander. He was my first pupil, as you were my last,
my child. Bring up our little Vanillette, Eugenie.
He is in the household of King Leopold, and his forte
is dressing the table!'

CHAPTER II.

The House of Bellamont.

HE Duke of Bellamont was a per-
sonage who, from his rank, his
blood, and his wealth, might almost
be placed at the head of the En-
glish nobility. Although the grand-
son of a mere country gentleman, his
fortunate ancestor, in the decline of the last century,
had captivated the heiress of the Montacutes, Dukes
of Bellamont, a celebrated race of the times of the
Plantagenets. The bridegroom, at the moment of his
marriage, had adopted the illustrious name of his
young and beautiful wife. Mr. Montacute was by
nature a man of energy and of an enterprising spirit.
His vast and early success rapidly developed his na-
tive powers. With the castles and domains and
boroughs of the Bellamonts, he resolved also to ac-
quire their ancient baronies and their modern coronets.
The times were favourable to his projects, though
they might require the devotion of a life. He married
amid the disasters of the American war. The king
and his minister appreciated the independent support
afforded them by Mr. Montacute, who represented his
county, and who commanded five votes in the House

12 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

besides his own. He was one of the chief pillars of
their cause; but he was not only independent, he was
conscientious and had scruples. Saratoga staggered
him. The defection of the Montacute votes, at this
moment, would have at once terminated the struggle
between England and her colonies. A fresh illustra-
tion of the advantages of our parliamentary consti-
tution! The independent Mr. Montacute, however,
stood by his sovereign; his five votes continued to
cheer the noble lord in the blue ribbon, and their
master took his seat and the oaths in the House of
Lords, as Earl of Bellamont and Viscount Montacute.

This might be considered sufficiently well for one
generation; but the silver spoon which some fairy had
placed in the cradle of the Earl of Bellamont was of
colossal proportions. The French Revolution suc-
ceeded the American war, and was occasioned by it.
It was but just, therefore, that it also should bring
its huge quota to the elevation of the man whom a
colonial revolt had made an earl. Amid the panic of
Jacobinism, the declamations of the friends of the
people, the sovereign having no longer Hanover for a
refuge, and the prime minister examined as a witness
in favour of the very persons whom he was trying for
high treason, the Earl of Bellamont made a calm visit
to Downing Street, and requested the revival of all
the honours of the ancient Earls and Dukes of Bella-
mont in his own person. Mr. Pitt, who was far
from favourable to the exclusive character which dis-
tinguished the English peerage in the last century,
was himself not disinclined to accede to the gentle
request of his powerful supporter; but the king was
less flexible. His Majesty, indeed, was on principle
not opposed to the revival of titles in families to

TANCRED

13

whom the domains without the honours of the old
nobility had descended; and he recognised the claim
of the present Earls of Bellamont eventually to regain
the strawberry leaf which had adorned the coronet of
the father of the present countess. But the king was
of opinion that this supreme distinction ought only to
be conferred on the blood of the old house, and that
a generation, therefore, must necessarily elapse before
a Duke of Bellamont could again figure in the golden
book of the English aristocracy.

But George the Third, with all his firmness, was
doomed to frequent discomfiture. His lot was cast in
troubled waters, and he had often to deal with
individuals as inflexible as himself. Benjamin Franklin
was not more calmly contumacious than the individual
whom his treason had made an English peer. In
that age of violence, change and panic, power, directed
by a clear brain and an obdurate spirit, could not fail
of its aim; and so it turned out, that, in the very
teeth of the royal will, the simple country gentleman,
whose very name was forgotten, became, at the com-
mencement of this century, Duke of Bellamont, Mar-
quis of Montacute, Earl of Bellamont, Dacre, and
Villeroy, with all the baronies of the Plantagenets in
addition. The only revenge of the king was, that he
never would give the Duke of Bellamont the garter.
It was as well perhaps that there should be some-
thing for his son to desire.

The Duke and Duchess of Bellamont were the
handsomest couple in England, and devoted to each
other, but they had only one child. Fortunately, that
child was a son. Precious life! The Marquis of
Montacute was married before he was of age. Not
a moment was to be lost to find heirs for all these

14 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

honours. Perhaps, had his parents been less precipi-
tate, their object might have been more securely ob-
tained. The union was not a happy one. The first
duke had, however, the gratification of dying a grand-
father. His successor bore no resemblance to him,
except in that beauty which became a characteristic
of the race. He was born to enjoy, not to create.
A man of pleasure, the chosen companion of the Re-
gent in his age of riot, he was cut off in his prime;
but he lived long enough to break his wife's heart
and his son's spirit; Hke himself, too, an only child.

The present Duke of Bellamont had inherited some-
thing of the clear intelligence of his grandsire, with
the gentle disposition of his mother. His fair abiH-
ties, and his benevolent inclinations, had been culti-
vated. His mother had watched over the child, in
whom she found alike the charm and consolation of
her life. But, at a certain period of youth, the for-
mation of character requires a masculine impulse, and
that was wanting. The duke disliked his son; in
time he became even jealous of him. The duke had
found himself a father at too early a period of life.
Himself in his lusty youth, he started with alarm at
the form that recalled his earliest and most brilliant
hour, and who might prove a rival. The son was of
a gentle and affectionate nature, and sighed for the
tenderness of his harsh and almost vindictive parent.
But he had not that passionate soul which might
have appealed, and perhaps not in vain, to the dor-
mant sympathies of the being who had created him.
The young Montacute was by nature of an extreme
shyness, and the accidents of his life had not tended
to dissipate his painful want of self-confidence. Phys-
ically courageous, his moral timidity was remark-

I

TANCRED

15

able. He alternately blushed or grew pale in his rare
interviews with his father, trembled in silence before
the undeserved sarcasm, and often endured the unjust
accusation without an attempt to vindicate himself.
Alone, and in tears alike of woe and indignation, he
cursed the want of resolution or ability which had
again missed the opportunity that, both for his mother
and himself, might have placed affairs in a happier
position. Most persons, under these circumstances,
would have become bitter, but Montacute was too
tender for malice, and so he only turned melancholy.

On the threshold of manhood, Montacute lost his
mother, and this seemed the catastrophe of his un-
happy life. His father neither shared his grief, nor
attempted to alleviate it. On the contrary, he seemed
to redouble his efforts to mortify his son. His great
object was to prevent Lord Montacute from entering
society, and he was so complete a master of the
nervous temperament on which he was acting that
there appeared a fair chance of his succeeding in his
benevolent intentions. When his son's education was
completed, the duke would not furnish him with the
means of moving in the world in a becoming man-
ner, or even sanction his travelling. His Grace was
resolved to break his son's spirit by keeping him im-
mured in the country. Other heirs apparent of a rich
seignory would soon have removed these difficulties.
By bill or by bond, by living usury, or by post-obit
liquidation, by all the means that private friends or
public offices could supply, the sinews of war would
have been forthcoming. They would have beaten
their fathers' horses at Newmarket, eclipsed them
with their mistresses, and, sitting for their boroughs,
voted against their party. But Montacute was not

i6 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

one of those young heroes who rendered so distin-
guished the earlier part of this century. He had passed
his life so much among women and clergymen that
he had never emancipated himself from the old law
that enjoined him to honour a parent. Besides, with
all his shyness and timidity, he was extremely proud.
He never forgot that he was a Montacute, though he
had forgotten, like the world in general, that his
grandfather once bore a different and humbler name.
All merged in the great fact, that he was the living
representative of those Montacutes of Bellamont, whose
wild and politic achievements, or the sustained splen-
dour of whose stately life had for seven hundred
years formed a stirring and superb portion of the his-
tory and manners of our country. Death was prefer-
able, in his view, to having such a name soiled in
the haunts of jockeys and courtesans and usurers;
and, keen as was the anguish which the conduct of
the duke to his mother or himself had often occa-
sioned him, it was sometimes equalled in degree by
the sorrow and the shame which he endured when
he heard of the name of Bellamont only in connection
with some stratagem of the turf or some frantic revel.

Without a friend, almost without an acquaintance,
Montacute sought refuge in love. She who shed over
his mournful life the divine ray of feminine sympathy
was his cousin, the daughter of his mother's brother,
an English peer, but resident in the north of Ireland,
where he had vast possessions. It was a family oth-
erwise little calculated to dissipate the reserve and
gloom of a depressed and melancholy youth; puritan-
ical, severe and formal in their manners, their relaxa-
tions a Bible Society, or a meeting for the conversion
of the Jews. But Lady Katherine was beautiful, and

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17

all were kind to one to whom kindness was strange,
and the soft pathos of whose solitary spirit demanded
affection.

Montacute requested his father's permission to
marry his cousin, and was immediately refused. The
duke particularly disliked his wife's family; but the
fact is, he had no wish that his son should ever
marry. He meant to perpetuate his race himself, and
was at this moment, in the midst of his orgies, med-
itating a second alliance, which should compensate
him for his boyish blunder. In this state of affairs,
Montacute, at length stung to resistance, inspired by
the most powerful of passions, and acted upon by a
stronger volition than his own, was planning a mar-
riage in spite of his father (love, a cottage by an
Irish lake, and seven hundred a-year) when intelli-
gence arrived that his father, whose powerful frame
and vigorous health seemed to menace a patriarchal
term, was dead.

The new Duke of Bellamont had no experience of
the world; but, though long cowed by his father, he
had a strong character. Though the circle of his ideas
was necessarily contracted, they were all clear and
firm. In his moody youth he had imbibed certain
impressions and arrived at certain conclusions, and
they never quitted him. His mother was his model
of feminine perfection, and he had loved his cousin
because she bore a remarkable resemblance to her
aunt. Again, he was of opinion that the tie between
the father and the son ought to be one of intimate
confidence and refined tenderness, and he resolved
that, if Providence favoured him with offspring, his
child should ever find in him absolute devotion of
thought and feeling.

i8

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

A variety of causes and circumstances had im-
pressed him with a conviction that what is called
fashionable life was a compound of frivolity and fraud,
of folly and vice; and he resolved never to enter it.
To this he was, perhaps, in some degree uncon-
sciously prompted by his reserved disposition, and by
his painful sense of inexperience, for he looked for-
ward to this world with almost as much of appre-
hension as of disHke. To politics, in the vulgar
sense of the word, he had an equal repugnance. He
had a lofty idea of his duty to his sovereign and his
country, and felt within him the energies that would
respond to a conjuncture. But he acceded to his
title in a period of calmness, when nothing was
called in question, and no danger was apprehended;
and as for the fights of factions, the duke altogether
held himself aloof from them; he wanted nothing, not
even the blue ribbon which he was soon obliged to
take. Next to his domestic hearth, all his being was
concentrated in his duties as a great proprietor of the
soil. On these he had long pondered, and these he
attempted to fulfil. That performance, indeed, was
as much a source of delight to him as of obligation.
He loved the country and a country life. His reserve
seemed to melt away the moment he was on his own
soil. Courteous he ever was, but then he became
gracious and hearty. He liked to assemble 'the
county' around him; to keep 'the county' together;
*the county' seemed always his first thought; he
was proud of 'the county,' where he reigned su-
preme, not more from his vast possessions than from
the influence of his sweet yet stately character, which
made those devoted to him who otherwise were in-
dependent of his sway.

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19

From straitened circumstances, and without hav-
ing had a single fancy of youth gratified, the Duke of
Bellamont had been suddenly summoned to the lord-
ship of an estate scarcely inferior in size and revenue
to some continental principalities; to dwell in pal-
aces and castles, to be surrounded by a disciplined
retinue, and to find every wish and want gratified
before they could be expressed or anticipated. Yet
he showed no elation, and acceded to his inheritance
as serene as if he had never felt a pang or proved a
necessity. She whom in the hour of trial he had
selected for the future partner of his life, though a
remarkable woman, by a singular coincidence of feel-
ing, for it was as much from her original character as
from sympathy with her husband, confirmed him in
all his moods.

Katherine, Duchess of Bellamont, was beautiful:
small and delicate in structure, with a dazzling com-
plexion, and a smile which, though rare, was of the
most winning and brilliant character. Her rich brown
hair and her deep blue eye might have become a
dryad; but her brow denoted intellect of a high or-
der, and her mouth spoke inexorable resolution. She
was a woman of fixed opinions, and of firm and
compact prejudices. Brought up in an austere circle,
where on all matters irrevocable judgment had been
passed, which enjoyed the advantages of knowing
exactly what was true in dogma, what just in
conduct, and what correct in manners, she had early
acquired the convenient habit of decision, while her
studious mind employed its considerable energies in
mastering every writer who favoured those opinions
which she had previously determined were the right
ones.

20 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

The duchess was deep in the divinity of the
seventeenth century. In the controversies between
the two churches, she could have perplexed St.
Omers or Maynooth. Chillingworth might be found
her boudoir. Not that her Grace's reading was con-
fined to divinity; on the contrary, it was various and
extensive. Puritan in religion, she was precisian in
morals; but in both she was sincere. She was so in
all things. Her nature was frank and simple; if she
were inflexible, she at least wished to be just; and
though very conscious of the greatness of her posi-
tion, she was so sensible of its duties that there was
scarcely any exertion which she would evade, or
any humility from which she would shrink, if she
believed she were doing her duty to her God or to
her neighbour.

It will be seen, therefore, that the Duke of Bella-
mont found no obstacle in his wife, who otherwise
much influenced his conduct, to the plans which he
had pre-conceived for the conduct of his life after
marriage. The duchess shrank, with a feeling of
haughty terror from that world of fashion which
would have so willingly greeted her. During the
greater part of the year, therefore, the Bellamonts re-
sided in their magnificent castle, in their distant
county, occupied with all the business and the pleasures
of the provinces. While the duke, at the head of the
magistracy, in the management of his estates, and in
the sports of which he was fond, found ample occu-
pation, his wife gave an impulse to the charity of
the county, founded schools, endowed churches, re-
ceived their neighbours, read her books, and amused
herself in the creation of beautiful gardens, for which
she had a passion.

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21

After Easter, Parliament requiring their presence,
the courtyard of one of the few palaces in London
opened, and the world learnt that the Duke and
Duchess of Bellamont had arrived at Bellamont House,
from Montacute Castle. During their stay in town,
which they made as brief as they well could, and
which never exceeded three months, they gave a
series of great dinners, principally attended by noble
relations and those families of the county who were
so fortunate as to have also a residence in London.
Regularly every year, also, there was a grand ban-
quet given to some members of the royal family by
the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont, and regularly
every year the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont had
the honour of dining at the palace. Except at a ball
or concert under the royal roof, the duke and duchess
were never seen anywhere in the evening. The great
ladies indeed, the Lady St. Julians and the Mar-
chionesses of Deloraine, always sent them invitations,
though they were ever declined. But the Bellamonts
maintained a sort of traditional acquaintance with a
few great houses, either by the ties of relationship,
which, among the aristocracy, are very ramified, or
by occasionally receiving travelling magnificoes at
their hospitable castle.

To the great body, however, of what is called
*the world,' the world that lives in St. James' Street
and Pall Mall, that looks out of a club window, and
surveys mankind as Lucretius from his philosophic
tower; the world of the Georges and the Jemmys; of
Mr. Cassilis and Mr. Melton; of the Milfords and the
Fitz-Herons, the Berners and the Egertons, the Mr.
Ormsbys and the Alfred Mountchesneys, the Duke
and Duchess of Bellamont were absolutely unknown.

22 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

All that the world knew was, that there was a great
peer who was called Duke of Bellamont; that there
was a great house in London, with a courtyard,
which bore his name; that he had a castle in the
country, which was one of the boasts of England;
and that this great duke had a duchess; but they
never met them anywhere, nor did their wives and
their sisters, and the ladies whom they admired, or
who admired them, either at ball or at breakfast,
either at morning dances or at evening dejeuners. It
was clear, therefore, that the Bellamonts might be
very great people, but they were not in 'society.'

It must have been some organic law, or some fate
which uses structure for its fulfilment, but again it
seemed that the continuance of the great house of
Montacute should depend upon the life of a single
being. The duke, like his father and his grandfather,
was favoured only with one child, but that child was
again a son. From the moment of his birth, the very
existence of his parents seemed identified with his
welfare. The duke and his wife mutually assumed to
each other a secondary position, in comparison with
that occupied by their offspring. From the hour of
his birth to the moment when this history opens,
and when he was about to complete his majority,
never had such solicitude been lavished on human
being as had been continuously devoted to the life of
the young Lord Montacute. During his earlier educa-
tion he scarcely quitted home. He had, indeed, once
been shown to Eton, surrounded by faithful domestics,
and accompanied by a private tutor, whose vigilance
would not have disgraced a superintendent of police;
but the scarlet fever happened to break out during
his first half, and Lord Montacute was instantly

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23

snatched away from the scene of danger, where he
was never again to appear. At eighteen he went to
Christ-church. His mother, who had nursed him her-
self, wrote to him every day; but this was not found
sufficient, and the duke hired a residence in the
neighourhood of the university, in order that they
might occasionally see their son during term.

CHAPTER III.

A Discussion about Money.

AW Eskdale just now,' said Mr. Cas-
silis, at White's, * going down to
the Duke of Bellamont's. Great
doings there: son comes of age
at Easter. Wonder what sort of
fellow he is ? Anybody know any-
thing about him?'

*I wonder what his father's rent-roll is?' said Mr.
Ormsby.

'They say it is quite clear,' said Lord Fitz-Heron.

*Safe for that,' said Lord Milford; 'and plenty of
ready money, too, I should think, for one never heard
of the present duke doing anything.'

*He does a good deal in his county,' said Lord
Valentine.

*1 don't call that anything,' said Lord Milford;
*but I mean to say he never played, was never seen
at Newmarket, or did anything which anybody can
remember. In fact, he is a person whose name you
never by any chance hear mentioned.'

* He is a sort of cousin of mine,' said Lord Valen-
tine; 'and we are all going down to the coming of
age: that is, we are asked.'
(24)

TANCRED

'Then you can tell us what sort of fellow the
son is.'

'I never saw him,' said Lord Valentine; 'but I
know the duchess told my mother last year, that
Montacute, throughout his life, had never occasioned
her a single moment's pain.'

Here there was a general laugh.

'Well, I have no doubt he will make up for lost
time,' said Mr. Ormsby, demurely.

'Nothing like mamma's darling for upsetting a
coach,' said Lord Milford. 'You ought to bring your
cousin here, Valentine; we would assist the develop-
ment of his unsophisticated intelligence.'

'If 1 go down, I will propose it to him.'

'Why if?' said Mr. Cassilis; 'sort of thing I should
like to see once uncommonly: oxen roasted alive, old
armour, and the girls of the village all running about
as if they were behind the scenes.'

'Is that the way you did it at your majority,
George?' said Lord Fitz-Heron.

'Egad! I kept my arrival at years of discretion
at Brighton. I believe it was the last fun there
ever was at the Pavilion. The poor dear king, God
bless him! proposed my health, and made the devil's
own speech; we all began to pipe. He was Regent
then. Your father was there, Valentine; ask him
if he remembers it. That was a scene! I won't
say how it ended; but the best joke is, I got a
letter from my governor a few days after, with an
account of what they had all been doing at Brand-
ingham, and rowing me for not coming down, and
I found out 1 had kept my coming of age the wrong
day.'

'Did you tell them?'

26 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Not a word: I was afraid we might have had to
go through it over again.'

'I suppose old Bellamont is the devil's own screw,'
said Lord Milford. 'Rich governors, who have never
been hard up, always are.'

*No: I believe he is a very good sort of fellow,'
said Lord Valentine; 'at least my people always say
so. I do not know much about him, for they never
go anywhere.'

'They have got Leander down at Montacute,' said
Mr. Cassilis. 'Had not such a thing as a cook in
the whole county. They say Lord Eskdale arranged
the cuisine for them; so you will feed well, Valen-
tine.'

'That is something: and one can eat before
Easter; but when the balls begin — — '

'Oh! as for that, you will have dancing enough
at Montacute; it is expected on these occasions: Sir
Roger de Coverley, tenants' daughters, and all that
sort of thing. Deuced funny, but I must say, if I am
to have a lark, I like VauxhalL'

'I never met the Bellamonts,' said Lord Milford,
musingly. 'Are there any daughters?'

'None.'

*That is a bore. A single daughter, even if there
be a son, may be made something of; because, in
nine cases out of ten, there is a round sum in the
settlements for the younger children, and she takes
it all.'

'That is the case of Lady Blanche Bickerstafle,'
said Lord Fitz-Heron. 'She will have a hundred thou-
sand pounds.'

'You don't mean that!' said Lord Valentine; 'and
she is a very nice girl, too.'

TANCRED

27

'You are quite wrong about the hundred thou-
sand, Fitz,' said Lord Milford; 'for I made it my
business to inquire most particularly into the affair:
it is only fifty.'

Mn these cases, the best rule is only to believe
half,' said Mr. Ormsby.

'Then you have only got twenty thousand a-year,
Ormsby,' said Lord Milford, laughing, 'because the
world gives you forty.'

' Well, we must do the best we can in these hard
times,' said Mr. Ormsby, with an air of mock resig-
nation. ' With your Dukes of Bellamont and all these
grandees on the stage, we little men shall be scarcely
able to hold up our heads.'

'Come, Ormsby,' said Lord Milford; 'tell us the
amount of your income tax.'

'They say Sir Robert quite blushed when he saw
the figure at which you were sacked, and declared it
was downright spoliation.'

'You young men are always talking about money,'
said Mr. Ormsby, shaking his head; 'you should
think of higher things.'

' I wonder what young Montacute will be thinking
of this time next year,' said Lord Fitz-Heron.

'There will be plenty of people thinking of him,'
said Mr. Cassihs. 'Egad! you gentlemen must stir
yourselves, if you mean to be turned off. You will
have rivals.'

'He will be no rival to me,' said Lord Milford;
'for I am an avowed fortune-hunter, and that you say
he does not care for, at least, at present.'

'And I marry only for love,' said Lord Valentine,
laughing; 'and so we shall not clash.'

'Ay, ay; but if he will not go to the heiresses.

28 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

the heiresses will go to him,' said Mr. Ormsby. 'I
have seen a good deal of these things, and I gener-
ally observe the eldest son of a duke takes a fortune
out of the market. Why, there is Beaumanoir, he is
like Valentine; I suppose he intends to marry for
love, as he is always in that way; but the heiresses
never leave him alone, and in the long run you can-
not withstand it; it is like a bribe; a man is indig-
nant at the bare thought, refuses the first offer, and
pockets the second.'

'It is very immoral, and very unfair,' said Lord
Milford, *that any man should marry for tin who
does not want it.'

CHAPTER IV.

MoNTACUTE Castle.

HE forest of Montacute, in the north
of England, is the name given to
an extensive district, which in many
^ parts offers no evidence of the
jf propriety of its title. The land,
especially during the last century,
has been effectively cleared, and presents, in general,
a champaign view; rich and rural, but far from pic-
turesque. Over a wide expanse, the eye ranges on
cornfields and rich hedgerows, many a sparkling spire,
and many a merry windmill. In the extreme distance,
on a clear day, may be discerned the blue hills of the
Border, and towards the north the cultivated country
ceases, and the dark form of the old forest spreads
into the landscape. The traveller, however, who may
be tempted to penetrate these sylvan recesses, will
find much that is beautiful, and little that is savage.
He will be struck by the capital road that winds
among the groves of ancient oak, and the turfy and
ferny wilderness which extends on each side, whence
the deer gaze on him with haughty composure, as if
conscious that he was an intruder into their kingdom
of whom they need have no fear. As he advances,

(29)

30 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

he observes the number of cross routes which branch
off from the main road, and which, though of less
dimensions, are equally remarkable for their masterly
structure and compact condition.

Sometimes the land is cleared, and he finds him-
self by the homestead of a forest farm, and remarks
the buildings, distinguished not only by their neat-
ness, but the propriety of their rustic architecture.
Still advancing, the deer become rarer, and the road
is formed by an avenue of chestnuts; the forest, on
each side, being now transformed into vegetable gar-
dens. The stir of the population is soon evident.
Persons are moving to and fro on the side path of
the road. Horsemen and carts seem returning from
market; women with empty baskets, and then the
rare vision of a stage-coach. The postilion spurs his
horses, cracks his whip, and dashes at full gallop into
the town of Montacute, the capital of the forest.

It is the prettiest little town in the world, built
entirely of hewn stone, the well-paved and well-
lighted streets as neat as a Dutch village. There are
two churches: one of great antiquity, the other raised
by the present duke, but in the best style of Christian
architecture. The bridge that spans the little but
rapid river Belle, is perhaps a trifle too vast and Ro-
man for Its site; but it was built by the first duke of
the second dynasty, who was always afraid of under-
building his position. The town v/as also indebted
to him for their hall, a Palladian palace. Montacute
is a corporate town, and, under the old system, re-
turned two members to Parliament. The amount of
its population, according to the rule generally ob-
served, might have preserved it from disfranchisement,
but, as every house belonged to the duke, and as he

TANCRED

was what, in the confused phraseology of the revolu-
tionary war, was called a Tory, the Whigs took care
to put Montacute in Schedule A.

The town-hall, the market-place, a literary institu-
tion, and the new church, form, with some good
houses of recent erection, a handsome square, in
which there is a fountain, a gift to the town from the
present duchess.

At the extremity of the town, the ground rises,
and on a woody steep, which is in fact the termina-
tion of a long range of tableland, may be seen the
towers of the outer court of Montacute Castle. The
principal building, which is vast and of various ages,
from the Plantagenets to the Guelphs, rises on a ter-
race, from which, on the side opposite to the town,
you descend into a well-timbered inclosure, called the
Home Park. Further on, the forest again appears;
the deer again crouch in their fern, or glance along
the vistas; nor does this green domain terminate till it
touches the vast and purple moors that divide the
kingdoms of Great Britain.

It was on an early day of April that the duke was
sitting in his private room, a pen in one hand, and
looking up with a face of pleasurable emotion at his
wife, who stood by his side, her right arm sometimes
on the back of his chair, and sometimes on his
shoulder, while with her other hand, between the
intervals of speech, she pressed a handkerchief to her
eyes, bedewed with the expression of an affectionate
excitement.

'It is too much,' said her Grace.

'And done in such a handsome manner!' said the
duke.

'I would not tell our dear child of it at this mo-

32 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

ment,' said the duchess; * he has so much to go
through!*

* You are right, Kate. It will keep till the cele-
bration is over. How delighted he will be!'

'My dear George, I sometimes think we are too
happy.'

'You are not half as happy as you deserve to be,'
repUed her husband, looking up with a smile of af-
fection; and then he finished his reply to the letter of
Mr. Hungerford, one of the county members, inform-
ing the duke, that now Lord Montacute was of age,
he intended at once to withdraw from Parliament,
having for a long time fixed on the majority of the
heir of the house of Bellamont as the signal for that
event. 'I accepted the post,' said Mr. Hungerford,
* much against my will. Your Grace behaved to me
at the time in the handsomest manner, and, indeed,
ever since, with respect to this subject. But a Mar-
quis of Montacute is, in my opinion, and, I believe I
may add, in that of the whole county, our proper
representative; besides, we want young blood in the
House.'

'It certainly is done in the handsomest manner,'
said the duke.

' But then you know, George, you behaved to him
in the handsomest manner; he says so, as you do in-
deed to everybody; and this is your reward.'

'I should be very sorry, indeed, if Hungerford did
not withdraw, with perfect satisfaction to himself, and
his family too,' urged the duke; 'they are most re-
spectable people, one of the most respectable families
in the county; I should be quite grieved if this step
were taken without their entire and hearty concur-
rence.'

TANCRED

33

*0f course it is,' said the duchess, 'with the en-
tire and hearty concurrence of every one. Mr. Hun-
gerford says so. And I must say that, though few
things could have gratified me more, I quite agree
with Mr. Hungerford that a Lord Montacute is the
natural member for the county; and I have no doubt
that if Mr. Hungerford, or any one else in his posi-
tion, had not resigned, they never could have met
our child without feeling the greatest embarrassment.'

'A man though, and a man of Hungerford's posi-
tion, an old family in the county, does not like to
figure as a warming-pan,' said the duke, thought-
fully. * I think it has been done in a very handsome
manner.'

'And we will show our sense of it,' said the
duchess. ' The Hungerfords shall feel, when they
come here on Thursday, that they are among our
best friends.'

'That is my own Kate! Here is a letter from
your brother. They will be here to-morrow. Esk-
dale cannot come over till Wednesday. He is' at
home, but detained by a meeting about his new har-
bour.'

' I am delighted that they will be here to-morrow,'
said the duchess. ' I am so anxious that he should
see Kate before the castle is full, when he will have
a thousand calls upon his time! I feel persuaded
that he will love her at first sight. And as for their
being cousins, why, we were cousins, and that did
not hinder us from loving each other.'

' If she resemble you as much as you resembled
your aunt ' said the duke, looking up.

'She is my perfect image, my very self, Harriet
says, in disposition, as well as face and form.'

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Then our son has a good chance of being a very
happy man,' said the duke.

* That he should come of age, enter ParHament,
and marry in the same year! We ought to be very
thankful. What a happy year!'

' But not one of these events has yet occurred,'
said the duke, smihng.

'But they all will,' said the duchess, * under Prov-
idence.'

' 1 would not precipitate marriage.'

'Certainly not; nor should 1 wish him to think of
it before the autumn. I should like him to be mar-
ried on our wedding-day.'

CHAPTER V.

The Heir Comes of Age.

HE sun shone brightly, there was
a triumphal arch at every road;
the market-place and the town-hall
were caparisoned like steeds for
a tournament, every house had its
garland; the flags were flying on
every tower and steeple. There was such a peal of
bells you could scarcely hear your neighbour's voice;
then came discharges of artillery, and then bursts of
music from various bands, all playing different tunes.
The country people came trooping in, some on horse-
back, some in carts, some in procession. The Tem-
perance band made an immense noise, and the Odd
Fellows were loudly cheered. Every now and then
one of the duke's yeomanry galloped through the
town in his regimentals of green and silver, with his
dark flowing plume and clattering sabre, and with an
air of business-like desperation, as if he were carry-
ing a message from the commander-in-chief in the
thickest of the fight.

Before the eventful day of which this merry morn
was the harbinger, the arrivals of guests at the castle
had been numerous and important. First came the
brother of the duchess, with his countess, and their

(35)

36 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

fair daughter the Lady Katherine, whose fate, uncon-
sciously to herself, had already been sealed by her
noble relatives. She was destined to be the third
Katherine of Bellamont that her fortunate house had
furnished to these illustrious walls. Nor, if unaware
of her high lot, did she seem unworthy of it. Her
mien was prophetic of the state assigned to her.
This was her first visit to Montacute since her early
childhood, and she had not encountered her cousin
since their nursery days. The day after them. Lord
Eskdale came over from his principal seat in the con-
tiguous county, of which he was lord-lieutenant. He
was the first cousin of the duke, his father and the
second Duke of Bellamont having married two sisters,
and of course intimately related to the duchess and
her family. Lord Eskdale exercised a great influence
over the house of Montacute, though quite unsought
for by him. He was the only man of the world
whom they knew, and they never decided upon any-
thing out of the limited circle of their immediate ex-
perience without consulting him. Lord Eskdale had
been the cause of their son going to Eton; Lord Esk-
dale had recommended them to send him to Christ-
church. The duke had begged his cousin to be his
trustee when he married; he had made him his ex-
ecutor, and had intended him as the guardian of his
son. Although, from the difference of their habits,
little thrown together in their earlier youth. Lord
Eskdale had shown, even then, kind consideration for
his relative; he had even proposed that they should
travel together, but the old duke would not consent
to this. After his death, however, being neighbours
as well as relatives, Lord Eskdale had become the
natural friend and counsellor of his Grace.

TANCRED

37

The duke deservedly reposed in him implicit con-
fidence, and entertained an almost unbounded admira-
tion of his cousin's knowledge of mankind. He was
scarcely less a favourite or less an oracle with the
duchess, though there were subjects on which she
feared Lord Eskdale did not entertain views as serious
as her own; but Lord Eskdale, with an extreme care-
lessness of manner, and an apparent negligence of
the minor arts of pleasing, was a consummate master
of the feminine idiosyncrasy, and, from a French
actress to an English duchess, was skilled in guiding
women without ever letting the curb be felt. Scarcely
a week elapsed, when Lord Eskdale was in the coun-
try, that a long letter of difficulties was not received
by him from Montacute, with an earnest request for
his immediate advice. His lordship, singularly averse
to letter writing, and especially to long letter writing,
used generally in reply to say that, in the course of
a day or two, he should be in their part of the
world, and would talk the matter over with them.

And, indeed, nothing was more amusing than to
see Lord Eskdale, imperturbable, yet not heedless,
with his peculiar calmness, something between that
of a Turkish pasha and an English jockey, standing
up with his back to the fire and his hands in his
pockets, and hearing the united statement of a case
by the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont; the serious
yet quiet and unexaggerated narrative of his Grace,
the impassioned interruptions, decided opinions, and
Hvely expressions of his wife, when she felt the duke
was not doing justice to the circumstances, or her
view of them, and the Spartan brevity with which,
when both his cHents were exhausted, their counsel
summed up the whole affair, and said three words

38 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

which seemed suddenly to remove all doubts, and to
solve all difficulties. In all the business of life, Lord
Eskdale, though he appreciated their native ability,
and respected their considerable acquirements, which
he did not share, looked upon his cousins as two
children, and managed them as children; but he was
really attached to them, and the sincere attachment
of such a character is often worth more than the
most passionate devotion. The last great domestic
embarrassment at Montacute had been the affair of
the cooks. Lord Eskdale had taken this upon his
own shoulders, and, writing to Daubuz, had sent
down Leander and his friends to open the minds and
charm the palates of the north.

Lord Valentine and his noble parents, and their
daughter. Lady Florentina, who was a great horse-
woman, also arrived. The countess, who had once
been a beauty with the reputation of a wit, and now
set up for being a wit on the reputation of having
been a beauty, was the lady of fashion of the party,
and scarcely knew anybody present, though there
were many who were her equals and some her supe-
riors in rank. Her way was to be a little fine, al-
ways smiling and condescendingly amiable; when
alone with her husband shrugging her shoulders
somewhat, and vowing that she was delighted that
Lord Eskdale was there, as she had somebody to
speak to. It was what she called 'quite a relief A
relief, perhaps, from Lord and Lady Mountjoy, whom
she had been avoiding all her life; unfortunate peo-
ple, who, with a large fortune, lived in a wrong
square, and asked to their house everybody who was
nobody; besides, Lord Mountjoy was vulgar, and
laughed too loud, and Lady Mountjoy called you ' my

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39

dear,' and showed her teeth. A relief, perhaps, too,
from the Hon. and Rev. Montacute Moantjoy, who,
with Lady Eleanor, four daughters and two sons, had
been invited to celebrate the majority of the future
chieftain of their house. The countess had what is
called *a horror of those Mountjoys, and those Mon-
tacute Mountjoys,' and what added to her annoyance
was, that Lord Valentine was always flirting with
the Misses Montacute Mountjoy.

The countess could find no companions in the
Duke and Duchess of Clanronald, because, as she
told her husband, as they could not speak English
and she could not speak Scotch, it was impossible
to exchange ideas. The bishop of the diocese was
there, toothless and tolerant, and wishing to be on
good terms with all sects, provided they pay church-
rates, and another bishop far more vigorous and of
greater fame. By his administration the heir of B§lla-
mont had entered the Christian Church, and by the
imposition of his hands had been confirmed in it.
His lordship, a great authority with the duchess, was
specially invited to be present on the interesting oc-
casion, when the babe that he had held at the font,
and the child that he had blessed at the altar,
was about thus publicly to adopt and acknowledge
the duties and responsibility of a man. But the
countess, though she liked bishops, liked them, as
she told her husband, 'in their place.' What that ex-
actly was, she did not define; but probably their
palaces or the House of Lords.

It was hardly to be expected that her ladyship
would find any relief in the society of the Marquis and
Marchioness of Hampshire; for his lordship passed his
life in being the President of scientific and literary so-

15 B. D.— 16

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

cieties, and was ready for anything from the Royal, if
his turn ever arrived, to opening a Mechanics' Insti-
tute in his neighbouring town. Lady Hampshire was
an invalid; but her ailment was one of those mys-
teries which still remained insoluble, although, in the
most liberal manner, she delighted to afford her
friends all the information in her power. Never was
a votary endowed with a faith at once so lively and
so capricious. Each year she believed in some new
remedy, and announced herself on the eve of some
miraculous cure. But the saint was scarcely canon-
ised before his claims to beatitude were impugned.
One year Lady Hampshire never quitted Leamington;
another, she contrived to combine the infinitesimal
doses of Hahnemann with the colossal distractions of
the metropolis. Now her sole conversation was the
water cure. Lady Hampshire was to begin immedi-
ately after her visit to Montacute, and she spoke m
her sawney voice of factitious enthusiasm, as if she
pitied the lot of all those who were not about to
sleep in wet sheets.

The members for the county, with their wives and
daughters, the Hungerfords and the lldertons, Sir
Russell Malpas, or even Lord Hull, an Irish peer with
an English estate, and who represented one of the
divisions, were scarcely a relief. Lord Hull was a
bachelor, and had twenty thousand a year, and would
not have been too old for Florentina, if Lord Hull
had only lived in 'society,' learnt how to dress and
how to behave, and had avoided that peculiar coarse-
ness of manners and complexion which seem the
inevitable results of a provincial life. What are forty-
five or even forty-eight years, if a man do not get
up too early or go to bed too soon, if he be

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41

dressed by the right persons, and, early accustomed
to the society of women, he possesses that flexibility
of manner and that readiness of gentle repartee
which a feminine apprenticeship can alone confer?
But Lord Hull was a man with a red face and a grey
head on whom coarse indulgence and the selfish neg-
ligence of a country life had already conferred a
shapeless form; and who, dressed something hke
a groom, sat at dinner in stolid silence by Lady
Hampshire, who, whatever were her complaints, had
certainly the art, if only from her questions, of mak-
ing her neighbours communicative. The countess
examined Lord Hull through her eye-glass with curi-
ous pity at so fine a fortune and so good a family
being so entirely thrown away. Had he been brought
up in a civilised manner, lived six months in May
Fair, passed his carnival at Paris, never sported ex-
cept in Scotland, and occasionally visited a German
bath, even Lord Hull might have 'fined down.' His
hair need not have been grey if it had been attended
to; his complexion would not have been so glaring;
his hands never could have grown to so huge a
shape.

What a party, where the countess was absolutely
driven to speculate on the possible destinies of a Lord
Hull! But in this party there was not a single young
man, at least not a single young man one had ever
heard of, except her son, and he was of no use. The
Duke of Bellamont knew no young men; the duke did
not even belong to a club; the Duchess of Bellamont
knew no young men; she never gave and she never
attended an evening party. As for the county youth,
the young Hungerfords and the young Ildertons, the
best of them formed part of the London crowd.

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Some of them, by complicated manoeuvres, might
even have made their way into the countess's crowded
saloons on a miscellaneous night. She knew the
length of their tether. They ranged, as the Price
Current says, from eight to three thousand a year.
Not the figure that purchases a Lady Florentina!

There were many other guests, and some of them
notable, though not of the class and character to
interest the fastidious mother of Lord Valentine; but
whoever and whatever they might be, of the sixty
or seventy persons who were seated each day in the
magnificent banqueting-room of Montacute Castle,
feasting, amid pyramids of gold plate, on the master-
pieces of Leander, there was not a single individual
who did not possess one of the two great qualifica-
tions: they were all of them cousins of the Duke of
Bellamont, or proprietors in his county.

But we must not anticipate, the great day of the
festival having hardly yet commenced.

CHAPTER VI.

A Festal Day.

N THE Home Park was a colossal
pavilion, which held more than two
thousand persons, and in which
the townsfolk of Montacute were
to dine; at equal distances were
several smaller tents, each of differ-
ent colours and patterns, and each bearing on a standard
the name of one of the surrounding parishes which
belonged to the Duke of Bellamont, and to the con-
venience and gratification of whose inhabitants these
tents were to-day dedicated. There was not a man
of Buddleton or Fuddleton; not a yeoman or peasant of
Montacute super Mare or Montacute Abbotts, nor
of Percy Bellamont nor Friar's Bellamont, nor Winch
nor Finch, nor of Mandeville Stokes nor Mandeville
Bois; not a goodman true of Carleton and Ingleton
and Kirkby and Dent, and Gillamoor and Padmore
and Hutton le Hale; not a stout forester from the
glades of Thorp, or the sylvan homes of Hurst Lyd-
gate and Bishopstowe, that knew not where foamed
and flowed the duke's ale, that was to quench the
longings of his thirsty village. And their wives and
daughters were equally welcome. At the entrance of

(43)

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

each tent, the duke's servants invited all to enter,
supplied them with required refreshments, or indicated
their appointed places at the approaching banquet.
In general, though there were many miscellaneous
parties, each village entered the park in procession,
with its flag and its band.

At noon the scene presented the appearance of an
immense but well-ordered fair. In the background,
men and boys climbed poles or raced in sacks, while
the exploits of the ginglers, their mischievous ma-
noeuvres and subtle combinations, elicited frequent
bursts of laughter. Further on, two long-menaced
cricket matches called forth all the skill and energy of
Fuddleton and Buddleton, and Winch and Finch.
The great throng of the population, however, was in
the precincts of the terrace, where, in the course of
the morning, it was known that the duke and duch-
ess, with the hero of the day and all their friends,
were to appear, to witness the sports of the people,
and especially the feats of the morrice-dancers, who
were at this moment practising before a very numer-
ous and delighted audience. In the meantime, bells,
drums, and trumpets, an occasional volley, and the
frequent cheers and laughter of the multitude, com-
bined with the brilliancy of the sun and the bright-
ness of the ale to make a right gladsome scene.

Mt's nothing to what it will be at night,' said one
of the duke's footmen to his family, his father and
mother, two sisters and a young brother, listening to
him with open mouths, and staring at his state livery
with mingled feelings of awe and affection. They had
come over from Bellamont Friars, and their son had
asked the steward to give him the care of the pavilion
of that village, in order that he might look after his

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45

friends. Never was a family who esteemed themselves
so fortunate or felt so happy. This was having a
friend at court, indeed.

'It's nothing to what it will be at night/ said
Thomas. 'You will have "Hail, star of Bellamont!"
and "God save the Queen!" a crown, three stars,'
four flags, and two coronets, all in coloured lamps,
letters six feet high, on the castle. There will be
one hundred beacons lit over the space of fifty miles
the moment a rocket is shot off from the Round
Tower; and as for fireworks, Bob, you'll see them at
last. Bengal lights, and the largest wheels will be as
common as squibs and crackers; and I have heard

say, though it is not to be mentioned ' And he

paused.

' We'll not open our mouths,' said his father, ear-
nestly.

*You had better not tell us,' said his mother, in a
nervous paroxysm; 'for I am in such a fluster, I am
sure I cannot answer for myself, and then Thomas
may lose his place for breach of conference.'

'Nonsense, mother,' said his sisters, who snubbed
their mother almost as readily as is the gracious habit
of their betters. ' Pray tell us, Tom.'

'Ay, ay, Tom,' said his younger brother.

'Well,' said Tom, in a confidential whisper, 'won't
there be a transparency! I have heard say the Queen
never had anything like it. You won't be able to see
it for the first quarter of an hour, there will be such
a blaze of fire and rockets; but when it does come,
they say it's like heaven opening; the young markiss
on a cloud, with his hand on his heart, in his new
uniform.'

'Dear me!' said the mother. 'I knew him before

46 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

he was weaned. The duchess suckled him herself,
which shows her heart is very true; for they may say
what they like, but if another's milk is in your child's
veins, he seems, in a sort of way, as much her bairn
as your own.'

'Mother's milk makes a true born Englishman,'
said the father; 'and 1 make no doubt our young
markiss will prove the same.'

'How I long to see him I' exclaimed one of the
daughters.

'And so do I!' said her sister; 'and in his uni-
form! How beautiful it must be!'

'Well, I don't know,' said the mother; 'and per-
haps you will laugh at me for saying so, but after
seeing my Thomas in his state livery, I don't care
much for seeing anything else.'

' Mother, how can you say such things ? I am
afraid the crowd will be very great at the fireworks.
We must try to get a good place.'

'I have arranged all that,' said Thomas, with a
triumphant look. 'There will be an inner circle for
the steward's friends, and you will be let in.'

'Oh!' exclaimed his sisters.

'Well, 1 hope I shall get through the day,' said his
mother; 'but it's rather a trial, after our quiet life.'

'And when will they come on the terrace,
Thomas ?'

'You see, they are waiting for the corporation,
that's the mayor and town council of Montacute;
they are coming up with an address. There! Do
you hear that? That's the signal gun. They are
leaving the town-hall at this same moment. Now, in
three-quarters of an hour's time or so, the duke and
duchess, and the young markiss, and all of them,

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1.

47

will come on the terrace. So you be alive, and draw
near, and get a good place. 1 must look after these
people.'

About the same time that the cannon announced that
the corporation had quitted the town-hall, some one
tapped at the chamber-door of Lord Eskdale, who
was seahng a letter in his private room.

'Well, Harris?' said Lord Eskdale, looking up, and
recognising his valet.

'His Grace has been inquiring for your lordship
several times,' replied Mr. Harris, with a perplexed
air.

'I shall be with him in good time,' replied his
lordship, again looking down.

'If you could manage to come down at once, my
lord,' said Mr. Harris.

'Why?'

'Mr. Leander wishes to see your lordship very
much.'

'Ah! Leander!' said Lord Eskdale, in a more in-
terested tone. 'What does he want?'

'1 have not seen him,' said Mr. Harris; 'but Mr.
Prevost tells me that his feelings are hurt.'

'I hope he has not struck,' said Lord Eskdale,
with a comical glance.

'Something of that sort,' said Mr. Harris, very
seriously.

Lord Eskdale had a great sympathy with artists;
he was well acquainted with that irritability which is
said to be the characteristic of the creative power;
genius always found in him an indulgent arbiter.
He was convinced that if the feelings of a rare spirit
like Leander were hurt, they were not to be trifled
with. He felt responsible for the presence of one so

48 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

eminent in a country where, perhaps, he was not
properly appreciated; and Lord Eskdale descended to
the steward's room with the consciousness of an im-
portant, probably a difficult, mission.

The kitchen of Montacute Castle was of the old
style, fitted for baronial feasts. It covered a great
space, and was very lofty. Now they build them in
great houses on a different system; even more dis-
tinguished by height, but far more condensed in area,
as it is thought that a dish often suffers from the
distances which the cook has to move over in col-
lecting its various component parts. The new princi-
ple seems sound; the old practice, however, was
more picturesque. The kitchen at Montacute was
like the preparation for the famous wedding feast of
Prince Riquet with the Tuft, when the kind earth
opened, and revealed that genial spectacle of white-
capped cooks, and endless stoves and stewpans. The
steady blaze of two colossal fires was shrouded by
vast screens. Everywhere, rich materials and silent
artists; business without bustle, and the all-pervading
magic of method. Philippon was preparing a sauce;
Dumoreau, in another quarter of the spacious cham-
ber, was arranging some truffles; the Englishman,
Smit, was fashioning a cutlet. Between these three
generals of division aides-de-camp perpetually passed,
in the form of active and observant marmitons, more
than one of whom, as he looked on the great masters
around him, and with the prophetic faculty of genius
surveyed the future, exclaimed to himself, like Cor-
reggio, 'And I also will be a cook.'

In this animated and interesting scene was only
one unoccupied individual, or rather occupied only
with his own sad thoughts. This was Papa Prevost,

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49

leaning against rather than sitting on a dresser, with
his arms folded, his idle knife stuck in his girdle, and
the tassel of his cap awry with vexation. His gloomy
brow, however, lit up as Mr. Harris, for whom he
was waiting with anxious expectation, entered, and
summoned him to the presence of Lord Eskdale, who,
with a shrewd yet lounging air, which concealed his
own foreboding perplexity, said, * Well, Prevost, what
is the matter? The people here been impertinent?'

Prevost shook his head. 'We never were in a
house, my lord, where they were more obliging. It
is something much worse.'

'Nothing wrong about your fish, 1 hope? Well,
what is it?'

'Leander, my lord, has been dressing dinners for
a week: dinners, I will be bound to say, which were
never equalled in the Imperial kitchen, and the duke
has never made a single observation, or sent him a
single message. Yesterday, determined to outdo even
himself, he sent up some escalopes de laitances de
carpes a la Bellamont. In my time I have seen noth-
ing like it, my lord. Ask Philippon, ask Dumoreau,
what they thought of it! Even the Englishman, Smit,
who never says anything, opened his mouth and ex-
claimed; as for the marmitons, they were breathless,
and I thought Achille, the youth of whom I spoke to
you, my lord, and who appears to me to be born
with the true feeling, would have been overcome
with emotion. When it was finished, Leander re-
tired to his room — I attended him — and covered his
face with his hands. Would you believe it, my lord!
Not a word; not even a message. All this morning
Leander has waited in the last hope. Nothing, abso-
lutely nothing! How can he compose when he is

50 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

not appreciated? Had he been appreciated, he would
to-day not only have repeated the escalopes d la Bel-
lamont, but perhaps even invented what might have
outdone it. It is unheard of, my lord. The late lord
Monmouth would have sent for Leander the very
evening, or have written to him a beautiful letter,
which would have been preserved in his family; M.
de Sidonia would have sent him a tankard from his
table. These things in themselves are nothing; but
they prove to a man of genius that he is understood.
Had Leander been in the Imperial kitchen, or even
with the Emperor of Russia, he would have been
decorated ! '

'Where is he?' said Lord Eskdale.

*He is alone in the cook's room.'

'I will go and say a word to him.'

Alone, in the cook's room, gazing in listless va-
cancy on the fire, that fire which, under his influence,
had often achieved so many master-works, was the
great artist who was not appreciated. No longer
suffering under mortification, but overwhelmed by
that exhaustion which follows acute sensibility and
the over-tension of the creative faculty, he looked
round as Lord Eskdale entered, and when he per-
ceived who was his visitor, he rose immediately,
bowed very low, and then sighed.

* Prevost thinks we are not exactly appreciated
here,' said Lord Eskdale.

Leander bowed again, and still sighed.

'Prevost does not understand the affair,' continued
Lord Eskdale. 'Why I wished you to come down
here, Leander, was not to receive the applause of my
cousin and his guests, but to form their taste.'

Here was a great idea; exciting and ennobling. It

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51

threw quite a new light upon the position of Leander.
He started; his brow seemed to clear. Leander, then,
like other eminent men, had duties to perform as well
as rights to enjoy; he had a right to fame, but it
was also his duty to form and direct public taste.
That then was the reason he was brought down to
Bellamont Castle; because some of the greatest per-
sonages in England, who never had eaten a proper
dinner in their lives, would have an opportunity, for
the first time, of witnessing art. What could the
praise of the Duke of Clanronald, or Lord Hampshire,
or Lord Hull, signify to one who had shared the con-
fidence of a Lord Monmouth, and whom Sir Alex-
ander Grant, the first judge in Europe, had declared
the only man of genius of the age? Leander erred
too in supposing that his achievements had been lost
upon the guests at Bellamont. Insensibly his feats had
set them a-thinking. They had been like Cossacks in
a picture-gallery; but the Clanronalds, the Hampshires,
the Hulls, would return to their homes impressed
with a great truth, that there is a difference between
eating and dining. Was this nothing for Leander to
have effected? Was it nothing, by this development
of taste, to assist in supporting that aristocratic in-
fluence which he wished to cherish, and which can
alone encourage art? If anything can save the aris-
tocracy in this levelling age, it is an appreciation of
men of genius. Certainly it would have been very
gratifying to Leander if his Grace had only sent him
a message, or if Lord Montacute had expressed a
wish to see him. He had been long musing over
some dish a la Montacute for this very day. The
young lord was reputed to have talent; this dish
might touch his fancy; the homage of a great artist

52 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

flatters youth; this offering of genius might colour
his destiny. But what, after all, did this signify?
Leander had a mission to perform.

*If I were you, I would exert myself, Leander,'
said Lord Eskdale.

'Ah! my lord, if all men were like you! If artists
were only sure of being appreciated; if we were but
understood, a dinner would become a sacrifice to the
gods, and a kitchen would be Paradise.'

In the meantime, the mayor and town-councillors
of Montacute, in their robes of olfice, and preceded
by their bedels and their mace-bearer, have entered
the gates of the castle. They pass into the great hall,
the most ancient part of the building, with its open
roof of Spanish chestnut, its screen and gallery and
dais, its painted windows and marble floor. Ascend-
ing the dais, they are ushered into an antechamber,
the first of that suite of state apartments that opens
on the terrace. Leaving on one side the principal
dining-room and the library, they proceeded through
the green drawing-room, so called from its silken
hangings, the red drawing-room, covered with ruby
velvet, and both adorned, but not encumbered, with
pictures of the choicest art, into the principal or
duchesses' drawing-room, thus entitled from its com-
plete collection of portraits of Duchesses of Bellamont.
It was a spacious and beautifully proportioned cham-
ber, hung with amber satin, its ceiling by Zucchero,
whose rich colours were relieved by the burnished
gilding. The corporation trod tremblingly over the
gorgeous carpet of Axminster, which displayed, in
vivid colours and colossal proportions, the shield and
supporters of Bellamont, and threw a hasty glance at
the vases of porphyry and malachite, and mosaic

/

TANCREt) 53

tables covered with precious toys, which were grouped
about.

Thence they were ushered into the Montacute
room, adorned, among many interesting pictures, by
perhaps the finest performance of Lawrence, a por-
trait of the present duke, just after his marriage. Tall
and graceful, with a clear dark complexion, regular
features, eyes of liquid tenderness, a frank brow, and
rich clustering hair, the accomplished artist had seized
and conveyed the character of a high-spirited but
gentle-hearted cavalier. From the Montacute chamber
they entered the ball-room; very spacious, white and
gold, a coved ceiHng, large Venetian lustres, and the
walls of looking-glass, enclosing friezes of festive
sculpture. Then followed another antechamber, in
the centre of which was one of the masterpieces of
Canova. This room, lined with footmen in state liv-
eries, completed the suite that opened on the terrace.
The northern side of this chamber consisted of a large
door, divided, and decorated in its panels with em-
blazoned shields of arms.

The valves being thrown open, the mayor and
town-council of Montacute were ushered into a gal-
lery one hundred feet long, and which occupied a
great portion of the northern side of the castle. The
panels of this gallery enclosed a series of pictures in
tapestry, which represented the principal achievements
of the third crusade. A Montacute had been one of
the most distinguished knights in that great adven-
ture, and had saved the life of Coeur de Lion at the
siege of Ascalon. In after-ages a Duke of Bellamont,
who was our ambassador at Paris, had given orders
to the Gobelins factory for the execution of this
series of pictures from cartoons by the most celebrated

54 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

artists of the time. The subjects of the tapestry had
obtained for the magnificent chamber, which they
adorned and rendered so interesting, the title of
'The Crusaders* Gallery.'

At the end of this gallery, surrounded by their
guests, their relatives, and their neighbours; by high
nobility, by reverend prelates, by the members and
notables of the county, and by some of the chief
tenants of the duke, a portion of whom were never
absent from any great carousing or high ceremony
that occurred within his walls, the Duke and Duchess
of Bellamont and their son, a little in advance of the
company, stood to receive the congratulatory addresses
of the mayor and corporation of their ancient and
faithful town of Montacute; the town which their
fathers had built and adorned, which they had often
represented in Parliament in the good old days, and
which they took care should then enjoy its fair pro-
portion of the good old things; a town, every house
in which belonged to them, and of which there was
not an inhabitant who, in his own person or in that
of his ancestry, had not felt the advantages of the
noble connection.

The duke bowed to the corporation, with the
duchess on his left hand; and on his right there
stood a youth, above the middle height and of a
frame completely and gracefully formed. His dark
brown hair, in those hyacinthine curls which Grecian
poets have celebrated, and which Grecian sculptors
have immortalised, clustered over his brow, which,
however, they only partially concealed. It was pale,
as was his whole countenance, but the liquid richness
of the dark brown eye, and the colour of the lip, de-
noted anything but a languid circulation. The features

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55

were regular, and inclined rather to a refinement
which might have imparted to the countenance a
character of too much delicacy, had it not been for
the deep meditation of the brow, and for the lower
part of the visage, which intimated indomitable will
and an iron resolution.

Placed for the first time in his life in a public
position, and under circumstances which might have
occasioned some degree of embarrassment even to
those initiated in the world, nothing was more re-
markable in the demeanour of Lord Montacute than
his self-possession; nor was there in his carriage
anything studied, or which had the character of being
preconceived. Every movement or gesture was dis-
tinguished by what may be called a graceful gravity.
With a total absence of that excitement which seemed
so natural to his age and situation, there was nothing
in his manner which approached to nonchalance or
indifference. It would appear that he duly estimated
the importance of the event they were commemo-
rating, yet was not of a habit of mind that over-
estimated anything.

15 B. D.— 17

CHAPTER VII.

A Strange Proposal.

HE week of celebration was over:
some few guests remained, near
relatives, and not very rich, the
Montacute Mountjoys, for exam-
ple. They came from a considerable
distance, and the duke insisted that
they should remain until the duchess went to Lon-
don, an event, by-the-bye, which was to occur very
speedily. Lady Eleanor was rather agreeable, and the
duchess a little liked her; there were four daughters,
to be sure, and not very lively, but they sang in the
evening.

It was a bright morning, and the duchess, with a
heart prophetic of happiness, wished to disburthen it
to her son; she meant to propose to him, therefore, to
be her companion in her walk, and she had sent
to his rooms in vain, and was inquiring after him,
when she was informed that *Lord Montacute was
with his Grace.'

A smile of satisfaction flitted over her face, as she
recalled the pleasant cause of the conference that was
now taking place between the father and the son.

Let us see how it advanced.
(56)

TANCRED

57

The duke is in his private library, consisting chiefly
of the statutes at large, Hansard, the Annual Register,
Parliamentary Reports, and legal treatises on the
powers and duties of justices of the peace. A por-
trait of his mother is over the mantel-piece: opposite
it a huge map of the county. His correspondence on
public business with the secretary of state, and the
various authorities of the shire, is admirably arranged:
for the duke was what is called an excellent man of
business, that is to say, methodical, and an adept in
all the small arts of routine. These papers were de-
posited, after having been ticketed with a date and a
summary of their contents, and tied with much tape,
in a large cabinet, which occupied nearly one side of
the room, and on the top of which were busts in
marble of Mr. Pitt, George 111., and the Duke of Wel-
lington.

The duke was leaning back in his chair, which it
seemed, from his air and position, he had pushed
back somewhat suddenly from his writing table, and
an expression of painful surprise, it cannot be denied,
dwelt on his countenance. Lord Montacute was on
his legs, leaning with his left arm on the chimney-
piece, very serious, and, if possible, paler than usual.

'You take me quite by surprise,' said the duke;
'I thought it was an arrangement that would have
deeply gratified you.'

Lord Montacute slightly bowed his head, but said
nothing. His father continued.

'Not wish to enter Parliament at present! Why,
that is all very well, and if, as was once the case,
we could enter Parliament when we liked, and how
we liked, the wish might be very reasonable. If I
could ring my bell, and return you member for Mon-

58 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

tacute with as much ease as I could send over to
Bellamont to engage a special train to take us to
town, you might be justified in indulging a fancy.
But how and when, I should like to know, are you
to enter Parliament now? This Parliament will last:
it will go on to the lees. Lord Eskdale told me so
not a week ago. Well then, at any rate, you lose
three years: for three years you are an idler. I never
thought that was your character. I have always had
an impression you would turn your mind to public
business, that the county might look up to you. If
you have what are called higher views, you should
not forget there is a great opening now in public life,
which may not offer again. The Duke is resolved to
give the preference, in carrying on the business of the
country, to the aristocracy. He believes this is our
only means of preservation. He told me so himself.
If it be so, I fear we are doomed. 1 hope we may
be of some use to our country without being minis-
ters of state. But let that pass. As long as the Duke
lives, he is omnipotent, and will have his way. If
you come into Parliament now, and show any dispo-
sition for office, you may rely upon it you will not
long be unemployed. I have no doubt I could arrange
that you should move the address of next session. 1
dare say Lord Eskdale could manage this, and, if he
could not, though I abhor asking a minister for any-
thing, I should, under the circumstances, feel perfectly
justified in speaking to the Duke on the subject my-
self, and,' added his Grace, in a lowered tone, but
with an expression of great earnestness and determi-
nation, 'I flatter myself that if the Duke of Bellamont
chooses to express a wish, it would not be disre-
garded.'

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59

Lord Montacute cast his dark, intelligent eyes upon
the floor, and seemed plunged in thought.

'Besides,' added the duke, after a moment's pause,
and inferring, from the silence of his son, that he was
making an impression, 'suppose Hungerford is not in
the same humour this time three years which he is
in now. Probably he may be; possibly he may not.
Men do not like to be baulked when they think they
are doing a very kind and generous and magnani-
mous thing. Hungerford is not a warming-pan; we
must remember that; he never was originally, and if
he had been, he has been member for the county too
long to be so considered now. I should be placed in
a most painful position, if, this time three years, I had
to withdraw my support from Hungerford, in order
to secure your return.'

'There would be no necessity, under any circum-
stances, for that, my dear father,' said Lord Monta-
cute, looking up, and speaking in a voice which,
though somewhat low, was of that organ that at
once arrests attention; a voice that comes alike from
the brain and from the heart, and seems made to
convey both profound thought and deep emotion.
There is no index of character so sure as the voice.
There are tones, tones brilliant and gushing, which im-
part a quick and pathetic sensibility: there are others
that, deep and yet calm, seem the just interpreters of
a serene and exalted intellect. But the rarest and the
most precious of all voices is that which combines
passion and repose; and whose rich and restrained
tones exercise, perhaps, on the human frame a stronger
spell than even the fascination of the eye, or that be-
witching influence of the hand, which is the privilege
of the higher races of Asia.

6o BENJAMIN DISRAELI

* There would be no necessity, under any circum-
stances, for that, my dear father,' said Lord Monta-
cute, 'for, to be frank, I believe I should feel as little
disposed to enter Parliament three years hence as
now.'

The duke looked still more surprised. 'Mr. Fox
was not of age when he took his seat,' said his Grace.
'You know how old Mr. Pitt was when he was a
minister. Sir Robert, too, was in harness very early.
I have always heard the good judges say. Lord Esk-
dale, for example, that a man might speak in Parlia-
ment too soon, but it was impossible to go in too
soon.'

'If he wished to succeed in that assembly,' replied
Lord Montacute, ' I can easily believe it. In all things
an early initiation must be of advantage. But I have
not that wish.*

'I don't like to see a man take his seat in the
House of Lords who has not been in the House of
Commons. He seems to me always, in a manner,
unfledged.'

'It will be a long time, I hope, my dear father,
before I take my seat in the House of Lords,' said
Lord Montacute, 'if, indeed, I ever do.'

'In the course of nature 'tis a certainty.'

'Suppose the Duke's plan for perpetuating an aris-
tocracy do not succeed,' said Lord Montacute, 'and
our house ceases to exist?'

His father shrugged his shoulders. 'It is not our
business to suppose that. I hope it never will be the
business of any one, at least seriously. This is a
great country, and it has become great by its aristoc-
racy.'

'You think, then, our sovereigns did nothing for

V

TANCRED 6i

our greatness, — Queen Elizabeth, for example, of
whose visit to Montacute you are so proud?'
'They performed their part.*

'And have ceased to exist. We may have per-
formed our part, and may meet the same fate.'

'Why, you are talking liberalism!'

'Hardly that, my dear father, for I have not ex-
pressed an opinion.'

' I wish I knew what your opinions were, my dear
boy, or even your wishes.'

'Well, then, to do my duty.'

'Exactly; you are a pillar of the State; support the
State.'

' Ah I if any one would but tell me what the State
is,' said Lord Montacute, sighing. 'It seems to me
your pillars remain, but they support nothing; in that
case, though the shafts may be perpendicular, and the
capitals very ornate, they are no longer props, they
are a ruin.'

'You would hand us over, then, to the ten-
pounders?'

'They do not even pretend to be a State,' said
Lord Montacute; 'they do not even profess to sup-
port anything; on the contrary, the essence of their
philosophy is, that nothing is to be established, and
everything is to be left to itself.'

' The common sense of this country and the fifty
pound clause will carry us through,' said the duke.

'Through what?' inquired his son.

'This — this state of transition,' replied his father.

'A passage to what?'

'Ah! that is a question the wisest cannot answer.*
' But into which the weakest, among whom I class
myself, have surely a right to inquire.'

62 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Unquestionably; and I know nothing that will
tend more to assist you in your researches than act-
ing with practical men.*

'And practising all their blunders,' said Lord Mon-
tacute. 'I can conceive an individual who has once
been entrapped into their haphazard courses, continu-
ing in the fatal confusion to which he has contributed
his quota; but I am at least free, and I wish to con-
tinue so.'

'And do nothing?'

'But does it follow that a man is infirm of action
because he declines fighting in the dark?'

'And how would you act, then? What are your
plans? Have you any?'

'I have.'

'Well, that is satisfactory,' said the duke, with
animation. 'Whatever they are, you know you may
count upon my doing everything that is possible to
forward your wishes. I know they cannot be un-
worthy ones, for I believe, my child, you are incapa-
ble of a thought that is not good or great.'

'I wish I knew what was good and great,' said
Lord Montacute; 'I would struggle to accomplish it.'

'But you have formed some views; you have
some plans. Speak to me of them, and without re-
serve; as to a friend, the most affectionate, the most
devoted.'

'My father,' said Lord Montacute, and moving, he
drew a chair to the table, and seated himself by the
duke, 'you possess and have a right to my confi-
dence. I ought not to have said that I doubted about
what was good; for I know you.'

'Sons like you make good fathers.'

'It is not always so,' said Lord Montacute; 'you

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63

have been to me more than a father, and I bear to
you and to my mother a profound and fervent affec-
tion; an affection/ he added, in a faltering tone,
'that is rarer, I believe, in this age than it was in
old days. I feel it at this moment more deeply,' he
continued, in a firmer tone, * because I am about to
propose that we should for a time separate.*

The duke turned pale, and leant forward in his
chair, but did not speak.

'You have proposed to me to-day,' continued
Lord Montacute, after a momentary pause, 'to enter
public life. I do not shrink from its duties. On the
contrary, from the position in which I am born, still
more from the impulse of my nature, I am desirous
to fulfil them. I have meditated on them, I may say,
even for years. But I cannot find that it is part of
my duty to maintain the order of things, for I will not call
it system, which at present prevails in our country. It
seems to me that it cannot last, as nothing can endure,
or ought to endure, that is not founded upon principle;
and its principle I have not discovered. In nothing,
whether it be religion, or government, or manners,
sacred or political or social life, do I find faith; and
if there be no faith, how can there be duty ? Is there
such a thing as religious truth ? Is there such a thing
as poHtical right? Is there such a thing as social
propriety ? Are these facts, or are they mere phrases ?
And if they be facts, where are they likely to be
found in England ? Is truth in our Church ? Why,
then, do you support dissent? Who has the right to
govern? The monarch? You have robbed him of
his prerogative. The aristocracy ? You confess to
me that we exist by sufferance. The people ? They
themselves tell you that they are nullities. Every ses-

64 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

sion of that Parliament in which you wish to intro-
duce me, the method by which power is distributed
is called in question, altered, patched up, and again
impugned. As for our morals, tell me, is charity the
supreme virtue, or the greatest of errors? Our social
system ought to depend on a clear conception of
this point. Our morals differ in different counties,
in different towns, in different streets, even in differ-
ent Acts of Parliament. What is moral in London is
immoral in Montacute; what is crime among the
multitude is only vice among the few.'

'You are going into first principles,' said the duke,
much surprised.

'Give me then second principles,' replied his son;
'give me any.'

'We must take a general view of things to form
an opinion,' said his father, mildly. 'The general
condition of England is superior to that of any other
country; it cannot be denied that, on the whole,
there is more political freedom, more social happi-
ness, more sound rehgion, and more material pros-
perity among us, than in any nation in the world.'

'I might question all that,' said his son; 'but they
are considerations that do not affect my views. If
other States are worse than we are, and I hope they are
not, our condition is not mended, but the contrary,
for we then need the salutary stimulus of example.'

'There is no sort of doubt,' said the duke, 'that
the state of England at this moment is the most
flourishing that has ever existed, certainly in modern
times. What with these railroads, even the condition
of the poor, which I admit was lately far from satis-
factory, is infinitely improved. Every man has work
who needs it, and wages are even high.'

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6S

*The railroads may have improved, in a certain
sense, the condition of the working classes almost as
much as that of members of Parliament. They have
been a good thing for both of them. And if you
think that more labour is all that is wanted by the
people of England, we may be easy for a time. I see
nothing in this fresh development of material industry,
but fresh causes of moral deterioration. You have an-
nounced to the millions that there welfare is to be
tested by the amount of their wages. Money is to
be the cupel of their worth, as it is of all other
classes. You propose for their conduct the least en-
nobling of all impulses. If you have seen an aristocracy
invariably become degraded under such influence; if
all the vices of a middle class may be traced to such
an absorbing motive; why are we to believe that the
people should be more pure, or that they should escape
the catastrophe of the policy that confounds the happi-
ness with the wealth of nations?'

The duke shook his head and then said, *You
should not forget we live in an artificial state.'

* So I often hear, sir,' replied his son; 'but where
is the art? It seems to me the very quality wanting
to our present condition. Art is order, method, har-
monious results obtained by fine and powerful prin-
ciples. I see no art in our condition. The people of
this country have ceased to be a nation. They are a
crowd, and only kept in some rude provisional dis-
cipline by the remains of that old system which they
are daily destroying.'

*But what would you do, my dear boy?' said his
Grace, looking up very distressed. 'Can you remedy
the state of things in which we find ourselves?'

*I am not a teacher,' said Lord Montacute, mourn-

66 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

fully; *I only ask you, I supplicate you, my dear
father, to save me from contributing to this quick
corruption that surrounds us/

*You shall be master of your own actions. I of-
fer you counsel, I give no commands; and, as for the
rest. Providence will guard us.'

' If an angel would but visit our house as he visited
the house of Lot ! ' said Montacute, in a tone almost of
anguish.

'Angels have performed their part,' said the duke.
*We have received instructions from one higher than
angels. It is enough for all of us.'

*It is not enough for me,' said Lord Montacute,
with a glowing cheek, and rising abruptly. 'It was
not enough for the Apostles; for though they listened
to the sermon on the mount, and partook of the first
communion, it was still necessary that He should ap-
pear to them again, and promise them a Comforter.
I require one,' he added, after a momentary pause,
but in an agitated voice. *I must seek one. Yes! my
dear father, it is of this that I would speak to you; it
is this which for a long time has oppressed my spirit,
and filled me often with intolerable gloom. We must
separate. I must leave you, I must leave that dear
mother, those beloved parents, in whom are con-
centred all my earthly affections; but I obey an im-
pulse that I believe comes from above. Dearest and
best of men, you will not thwart me; you will for-
give, you will aid me!' And he advanced and threw
himself into the arms of his father.

The duke pressed Lord Montacute to his heart,
and endeavoured, though himself agitated and much
distressed, to penetrate the mystery of this ebullition.
* He says we must separate,' thought the duke to

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67

himself. *Ah! he has lived too much at home, too
much alone; he has read and pondered too much; he
has moped. Eskdale was right two years ago. I
wish I had sent him to Paris, but his mother was so
alarmed; and, indeed, 'tis a precious life! The House
of Commons would have been just the thing for him.
He would have worked on committees and grown
practical. But something must be done for him, dear
child! He says we must separate; he wants to
travel. And perhaps he ought to travel. But a life
on which so much depends! And what will Kath-
arine say? It will kill her. 1 could screw myself up
to it. I would send him well attended. Brace should
go with him; he understands the Continent; he was
in the Peninsular war; and he should have a skilful
physician. I see how it is; I must act with decision,
and break it to his mother.'

These ideas passed through the duke's mind dur-
ing the few seconds that he embraced his son, and
endeavoured at the same time to convey consolation
by the expression of his affection, and his anxiety at
all times to contribute to his child's happiness.

*My dear son,' said the duke, when Lord Monta-
cute had resumed his seat, 'I see how it is; you
wish to travel ? '

Lord Montacute bent his head, as if in assent.

Mt will be a terrible blow to your mother; I say
nothing of myself. You know what I feel for you.
But neither your mother nor myself have a right to
place our feelings in competition with any arrange-
ment for your welfare. It would be in the highest
degree selfish and unreasonable; and perhaps it will
be well for you to travel awhile; and, as for Parlia-
ment, I am to see Hungerford this morning at Bella-

68 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

mont. I will try and arrange with him to postpone
his resignation until the autumn, or, if possible, for
some little time longer. You will then have accom-
plished your purpose. It will do you a great deal of
good. You will have seen the world, and you can
take your seat next year.'

The duke paused. Lord Montacute looked per-
plexed and distressed; he seemed about to reply, and
then, leaning on the table, with his face concealed
from his father, he maintained his silence. The duke
rose, looked at his watch, said he must be at Bella-
mont by two o'clock, hoped that Brace would dine
at the castle to-day, thought it not at all impossible
Brace might, would send on to Montacute for him,
perhaps might meet him at Bellamont. Brace under-
stood the Continent, spoke several languages, Spanish
among them, though it was not probable his son
would have any need of that, the present state of
Spain not being very inviting to the traveller.

'As for France,' said the duke, * France is Paris, and
I suppose that will be your first step; it generally is.
We must see if your cousin, Henry Howard, is there.
If so, he will put you in the way of everything.
With the embassy and Brace, you would manage
very well at Paris. Then, I suppose, you would like
to go to Italy; that, I apprehend, is your great point.
Your mother will not like your going to Rome. Still,
at the same time, a man, they say, should see Rome
before he dies. I never did. I have never crossed
the sea except to go to Ireland. Your grandfather
would never let me travel; 1 wanted to, but he never
would. Not, however, for the same reasons which
have kept you at home. Suppose you even winter at
Rome, which I believe is the right thing, why, you

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69

might very well be back by the spring. However,
we must manage your mother a little about remain-
ing over the winter, and, on second thoughts, we
will get Bernard to go with you, as well as Brace
and a physician, and then she will be much more
easy. I think, with Brace, Bernard, and a medical
man whom we can really trust, Harry Howard at
Paris, and the best letters for every other place,
which we will consult Lord Eskdale about, I think
the danger will not be extreme.'

'I have no wish to see Paris,' said Lord Montacute,
evidently embarrassed, and making a great effort to
relieve his mind of some burthen. * I have no wish
to see Paris.'

M am very glad to hear that,' said his father,
eagerly.

*Nor do I wish either to go to Rome,' continued
his son.

*Well, well, you have taken a load off my mind,
my dear boy. I would not confess it, because I wish
to save you pain; but really, I believe the idea of
your going to Rome would have been a serious shock
to your mother. It is not so much the distance,
though that is great, nor the climate, which has its
dangers, but, you understand, with her peculiar

views, her very strict ' The duke did not care

to finish his sentence.

'Nor, my dear father,' continued Lord Montacute,
'though 1 did not like to interrupt you when you
were speaking with so much solicitude and consid-
eration for me, is it exactly travel, in the common
acceptation of the term, that I feel the need of. I
wish, indeed, to leave England; I wish to make an
expedition; a progress to a particular point; without

70 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

wandering, without any intervening residence. In a
word, it is the Holy Land that occupies my thought,
and 1 propose to make a pilgrimage to the sepulchre
of my Saviour.'

The duke started, and sank again into his chair.
'The Holy Land! The Holy Sepulchre!' he exclaimed,
and repeated to himself, staring at his son.

* Yes, sir, the Holy Sepulchre,' repeated Lord Mon-
tacute, and now speaking with his accustomed re-
pose. ' When I remember that the Creator, since
light sprang out of darkness, has deigned to reveal
Himself to His creature only in one land, that in that
land He assumed a manly form, and met a human
death, I feel persuaded that the country sanctified by
such intercourse and such events must be endowed
with marvellous and peculiar quaHties, which man
may not in all ages be competent to penetrate, but
which, nevertheless, at all times exercise an irresisti-
ble influence upon his destiny. It is these qualities
that many times drew Europe to Asia during the
middle centuries. Our castle has before this sent
forth a De Montacute to Palestine. For three days
and three nights he knelt at the tomb of his Re-
deemer. Six centuries and more have elapsed since
that great enterprise. It is time to restore and reno-
vate our communications with the Most High. I,
too, would kneel at that tomb; I, too, surrounded
by the holy hills and sacred groves of Jerusalem,
would relieve my spirit from the bale that bows it
down; would lift up my voice to heaven, and ask.
What is duty, and what is faith? What ought I to
do, and what ought I to believe?'

The Duke of Bellamont rose from his seat, and
walked up and down the room for some minutes, in

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71

silence and in deep thought. At length, stopping and
leaning against the cabinet, he said, 'What has oc-
curred to-day between us, my beloved child, is, you
may easily believe, as strange to me as it is agita-
ting. I will think of all you have said; I will try to
comprehend all you mean and wish. I will endeavour
to do that which is best and wisest; placing above ,
all things your happiness, and not our own. At this
moment I am not competent to the task: I need
quiet, and to be alone. Your mother, I know, wishes
to walk with you this morning. She may be speak-
ing to you of many things. Be silent upon this sub-
ject, until I have communicated with her. At present
I will ride over to Bellamont. I must go; and, be-
sides, it will do me good. I never can think very
well except in the saddle. If Brace comes, make him
dine here. God bless you.'

The duke left the room; his son remained in med-
itation. The first step was taken. He had poured
into the interview of an hour the results of three
years of solitary thought. A sound roused him; it
was his mother. She had only learnt casually that
the duke was gone; she was surprised he had not
come into her room before he went; it seemed the
first time since their marriage that the duke had gone
out without first coming to speak to her. So she
went to seek her son, to congratulate him on being
a member of Parliament, on representing the county
of which they were so fond, and of breaking to him
a proposition which she doubted not he would find
not less interesting and charming. Happy mother,
with her only son, on whom she doted and of whom
she was so justly proud, about to enter public life in
which he was sure to distinguish himself, and to

15 B. D.— 18

72 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

marry a woman who was sure to make him happy!
With a bounding heart the duchess opened the library
door, where she had been informed she should find
Lord Montacute. She had her bonnet on, ready for
the walk of confidence, and, her face flushed with
delight, she looked even beautiful. * Ah ! ' she ex-
claimed, M have been looking for you, TancredJ'

CHAPTER Vm.

The Decision.

HE duke returned rather late from
Bellamont, and went immediately to
his dressing-room. A few minutes
before dinner the duchess knocked
at his door and entered. She
seemed disconcerted, and reminded
him, though with great gentleness, that he had gone
out to-day without first bidding her adieu; she really
believed it was the only time he had done so since
their marriage. The duke, who, when she entered,
anticipated something about their son, was relieved
by her remark, embraced her, and would have af-
fected a gaiety which he did not really feel.

' I am glad to hear that Brace dines here to-day,
Kate, for I particularly wanted to see him.'

The duchess did not reply, and seemed absent;
the duke, to say something, tying his cravat, kept
harping upon Brace.

'Never mind Brace, George,* said the duchess;
'tell me what is this about Tancred? Why is his
coming into Parliament put off?'

The duke was perplexed; he wished to know how
far at this moment his wife was informed upon the
matter; the feminine frankness of the duchess put him

(73)

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

out of suspense. ' I have been walking with Tan-
cred,' she continued, 'and intimated, but with great
caution, all our plans and hopes. I asked him what
he thought of his cousin; he agrees with us she is
by far the most charming girl he knows, and one of
the most agreeable. I impressed upon him how good
she was. I wished to precipitate nothing. I never
dreamed of their marrying until late in the autumn.
I wished him to become acquainted with his new
life, which would not prevent him seeing a great
deal of Katherine in London, and then to visit them
in Ireland, as you visited us, George; and then, when
I was settling everything in the most delightful man-
ner, what he was to do when he was kept up very
late at the House, which is the only part I don't like,
and begging him to be very strict in making his
servant always have coffee ready for him, very hot,
and a cold fowl too, or something of the sort, he
tells me, to my infinite astonishment, that the vacancy
will not immediately occur, that he is not sorry for it,
as he thinks it may be as well that he should go
abroad. What can all this mean? Pray tell me; for
Tancred has told me nothing, and, when I pressed
him, waived the subject, and said we would all of us
consult together.'

*And so we will, Kate,' said the duke, 'but
hardly at this moment, for dinner must be almost
served. To be brief,' he added, speaking in a light
tone, 'there are reasons which perhaps may make it
expedient that Hungerford should not resign at the
present moment; and as Tancred has a fancy to travel
a little, it may be as well that we should take it into
consideration whether he might not profitably occupy
the interval in this manner.'

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75

'Profitably!' said the duchess. M never can under-
stand how going to Paris and Rome, which young
men always mean when they talk of travelHng, can be
profitable to him; it is the very thing which, all my
life, I have been endeavouring to prevent. His body
and his soul will be both imperilled; Paris will de-
stroy his constitution, and Rome, perhaps, change
his faith.'

' I have more confidence in his physical power and
his religious principle than you, Kate,' said the duke,
smihng. 'But make yourself easy on these heads;
Tancred told me this morning that he had no wish
to visit either Rome or Paris.'

'Well!' exclaimed the duchess, somewhat relieved,
' if he wants to make a little tour in Holland, I think
I could bear it; it is a Protestant country, and there
are no vermin. And then those dear Disbrowes, I am
sure, would take care of him at The Hague.'

'We will talk of all this to-night, my love,' said
the duke; and offering his arm to his wife, who was
more composed, if not more cheerful, they descended
to their guests.

Colonel Brace was there, to the duke's great satis-
faction. The colonel had served as a cornet in a
dragoon regiment in the last campaign of the Penin-
sular war, and had marched into Paris. Such an
event makes an indelible impression on the memory
of a handsome lad of seventeen, and the colonel had
not yet finished recounting his strange and fortunate
adventures.

He was tall, robust, a little portly, but, well
buckled, still presented a grand military figure. He
was what you call a fine man; florid, with still a
good head of hair though touched with grey, splen-

76 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

did moustaches, large fat hands, and a courtly de-
meanour not unmixed with a slight swagger. The
colonel was a Montacute man, and had inherited a
large house in the town and a small estate in the
neighbourhood. Having sold out, he had retired to
his native place, where he had become a considerable
personage. The duke had put him in the commis-
sion, and he was the active magistrate of the district;
he had reorganised the Bellamont regiment of yeo-
manry cavalry, which had fallen into sad decay during
the late duke's time, but which now, with Brace for
its lieutenant-colonel, was second to none in the king-
dom. Colonel Brace was one of the best shots in the
county; certainly the boldest rider among the heavy
weights; and bore the palm from all with the rod,
in a county famous for its feats in lake and river.

The colonel was a man of great energy, of good
temper, of ready resource, frank, a little coarse, but
hearty and honest. He adored the Duke and Duchess
of Bellamont. He was sincere; he was not a para-
site; he really believed that they were the best peo-
ple in the world, and I am not sure that he had
not some foundation for his faith. On the whole,
he might be esteemed the duke's right-hand man.
His Grace generally consulted the colonel on county
affairs; the command of the yeomanry alone gave him
a considerable position; he was the chief also of the
militia staff; could give his opinion whether a person
was to be made a magistrate or not; and had even
been called into council when there was a question
of appointing a deputy-lieutenant. The colonel, who
was a leading member of the corporation of Monta-
cute, had taken care to be chosen mayor this year;
he had been also chairman of the Committee of Man-

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agement during the celebration of Tancred's majority;
had had the entire ordering of the fireworks, and was
generally supposed to have given the design, or at
least the leading idea, for the transparency.

We should notice also Mr. Bernard, a clergyman,
and recently the private tutor of Lord Montacute, a
good scholar; in ecclesiastical opinions, what is called
high and dry. He was about five-and-thirty; well-
looking, bashful. The duke intended to prefer him to
a living when one was vacant; in the meantime he
remained in the family, and at present discharged the
duties of chaplain and librarian at Montacute, and oc-
casionally assisted the duke as private secretary. Of
his life, one third had been passed at a rural home,
and the rest might be nearly divided between school
and college.

These gentlemen, the distinguished and numerous
family of the Montacute Mountjoys, young Hunger-
ford, whom the duke had good-naturedly brought
over from Bellamont for the sake of the young ladies,
the duke and duchess, and their son, formed the party,
which presented rather a contrast, not only in its
numbers, to the series of recent banquets. They dined
in the Montacute chamber. The party, without in-
tending it, was rather dull and silent. The duchess
was brooding over the disappointment of the morn-
ing; the duke trembled for the disclosures of the mor-
row. The Misses Mountjoy sang better than they
talked; their mother, who was more lively, was seated
by the duke, and confined her powers of pleasing to
him. The Honourable and Reverend Montacute him-
self was an epicure, and disliked conversation during
dinner. Lord Montacute spoke to Mr. Hungerford
across the table, but Mr. Hungerford was whispering

78 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

despairing nothings in the ear of Arabella Mountjoy,
and replied to his question without originating any in
return, which of coursfe terminates talk.

When the second course had arrived, the duke,
who wanted a little more noise and distraction, fired
off in despair a shot at Colonel Brace, who was on
the left hand of the duchess, and set him on his
yeomanry charger. From this moment affairs im-
proved. The colonel made continual charges, and
carried all before him. Nothing could be more noisy
in a genteel way. His voice sounded like the bray
of a trumpet amid the din of arms; it seemed that the
moment he began, everybody and everything became
animated and inspired by his example. All talked;
the duke set them the fashion of taking wine with
each other; Lord Montacute managed to entrap Ar-
minta Mountjoy into a narrative in detail of her morn-
ing's ride and adventures; and, affecting scepticism as
to some of the incidents, and wonder at some of the
feats, produced a considerable addition to the general
hubbub, which he instinctively felt that his father
wished to encourage.

'I don't know whether it was the Great Western
or the South Eastern,' continued Colonel Brace; *but
I know his leg is broken.'

'God bless me!' said the duke; 'and only think of
my not hearing of it at Bellamont to-day I'

'I don't suppose they know anything about it,*
replied the colonel. 'The way I know it is this: I
was with Roby to-day, when the post came in, and
he said to me, "Here is a letter from Lady Malpas;
I hope nothing is the matter with Sir Russell or any
of the children." And then it all came out. The
train was blown up behind; Sir Russell was in a

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centre carriage, and was pitched right into a field.
They took him into an inn, put him to bed, and sent
for some of the top-sawyers from London, Sir Ben-
jamin Brodie, and that sort of thing; and the moment
Sir Russell came to himself, he said, "I must have
Roby, send for Roby, Roby knows my constitution."
And they sent for Roby. And I think he was right.
The quantity of young officers I have seen sent right-
about in the Peninsula, because they were attended
by a parcel of men who knew nothing of their con-
stitution! Why, I might have lost my own leg once,
if I had not been sharp. I got a scratch in a little
affair at Almeidas, charging the enemy a little too
briskly; but we really ought not to speak of these
things before the ladies '

'My dear colonel,* said Lord Montacute, *on the
contrary, there is nothing more interesting to them.
Miss Mountjoy was saying only yesterday, that there *
was nothing she found so difficult to understand as
the account of a battle, and how much she wished to
comprehend it.'

'That is because, in general, they are not written
by soldiers,' said the colonel; 'but Napier's battles are
very clear. I could fight every one of them on this
table. That's a great book, that history of Napier; it
has faults, but they are rather omissions than mis-
takes. Now that affair of Almeidas of which I was
just speaking, and which nearly cost me my leg, it
is very odd, but he has omitted mentioning it alto-
gether.'

'But you saved your leg, colonel,' said the duke.

' Yes, I had the honour of marching into Paris, and
that is an event not very easy to be forgotten, let me
tell your Grace. I saved my leg because I knew my

8o BENJAMIN DISRAELI

constitution. For the very same reason by which I
hope Sir Russell Malpas will save his leg. Because
he will be attended by a person who knows his con-
stitution. He never did a wiser thing than sending
for Roby. For my part, if I were in garrison at
Gibraltar to-morrow, and laid up, I would do the
same; I would send for Roby. In all these things,
depend upon it, knowing the constitution is half the
battle.*

All this time, while Colonel Brace was indulging
in his garrulous comments, the Duke of Bellamont
was drawing his moral. He had a great opinion of
Mr. Roby, who was the medical attendant of the
castle, and an able man. Mr. Roby was perfectly ac-
quainted with the constitution of his son; Mr. Roby
must go to the Holy Sepulchre. Cost what it might,
Mr. Roby must be sent to Jerusalem. The duke was
calculating all this time the income that Mr. Roby
made. He would not put it down at more than five
hundred pounds per annum, and a third of that was
certainly afforded by the castle. The duke determined
to offer Roby a thousand and his expenses to attend
Lord Montacute. He would not be more than a year
absent, and his practice could hardly seriously suffer
while away, backed as he would be, when he re-
turned, by the castle. And if it did, the duke must
guarantee Roby against loss; it was a necessity, ab-
solute and of the first class, that Tancred should be
attended by a medical man who knew his constitu-
tion. The duke agreed with Colonel Brace that it
was half the battle.

CHAPTER IX.

Tancred, the New Crusader.

ISERABLE mother that I am!' ex-
claimed the duchess, and she clasped
her hands in anguish.

*My dearest Katherine! ' said the
duke, ' calm yourself.'

* You ought to have prevented
this, George; you ought never to have let things come
to this pass.'

'But, my dearest Katherine, the blow was as un-
looked-for by me as by yourself. I had not, how
could I have, a remote suspicion of what was passing
through his mind?'

' What, then, is the use of your boasted confidence
with your child, which you tell me you have always
cultivated ? Had 1 been his father, I would have dis-
covered his secret thoughts.'

*Very possibly, my dear Katherine; but you are
at least his mother, tenderly loving him, and tenderly
loved by him. The intercourse between you has ever
been of an extreme intimacy, and especially on the
subjects connected with this fancy of his, and yet,
you see, even you are completely taken by surprise.'

M once had a suspicion he was inclined to the
Puseyite heresy, and 1 spoke to Mr. Bernard on the

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82 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

subject, and afterwards to him, but I was convinced
that I was in error. I am sure,' added the duchess,
in a mournful tone, ' I have lost no opportunity of
instilling into him the principles of religious truth. It
was only last year, on his birthday, that I sent him a
complete set of the pubhcations of the Parker Society,
my own copy of Jewel, full of notes, and my grand-
father, the primate's, manuscript commentary on
Chillingworth; a copy made purposely by myself.'

'I well know,* said the duke, *that you have done
everything for his spiritual welfare which ability and
affection combined could suggest.'

*And it ends in this!' exclaimed the duchess.
*The Holy Land! Why, if he even reach it, the
climate is certain death. The curse of the Almighty,
for more than eighteen centuries, has been on that
land. Every year it has become more sterile, more
savage, more unwholesome, and more unearthly. It
is the abomination of desolation. And now my son
is to go there! Oh! he is lost to us for ever!'

*But, my dear Katherine, let us consult a little.*

'Consult! Why should I consult? You have set-
tled everything, you have agreed to everything. You
do not come here to consult me; 1 understand all
that; you come here to break a foregone conclusion
to a weak and miserable woman.'

*Do not say such things, Katherine!'

'What should I say? What can I say?'

'Anything but that. I hope that nothing will be
ever done in this family without your full sanction.'

* Rest assured, then, that I will never sanction the
departure of Tancred on this crusade.'

'Then he will never go, at least, with my con-
sent,' said the duke; 'but Katherine, assist me, my

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83

dear wife. All shall be, shall ever be, as you wish;
but I shrink from being placed, from our being
placed, in collision with our child. The mere exer-
cise of parental authority is a last resource; I would
appeal first, rather to his reason, to his heart; your ar-
guments, his affection for us, may yet influence him.*

'You tell me you have argued with him,' said the
duchess in a melancholy tone.

* Yes, but you know so much more on these sub-
jects than I do, indeed, upon all subjects; you are so
clever, that I do not despair, my dear Katherine, of
your producing an impression on him.'

'\ would tell him at once,' said the duchess, firmly,
'that the proposition cannot be listened to.'

The duke looked very distressed. After a mo-
mentary pause, he said, ' If, indeed, you think that
the best; but let us consult before we take that step,
because it would seem to terminate all discussion,
and discussion may yet do good. Besides, 1 cannot
conceal from myself that Tancred in this affair is
acting under the influence of very powerful motives;
his feelings are highly strung; you have no idea, you
can have no idea from what we have seen of him
hitherto, how excited he is. I had no idea of his
being capable of such excitement. I always thought
him so very calm, and of such a quiet turn. And so,
in short, my dear Katherine, were we to be abrupt
at this moment, peremptory, you understand, 1 — I
should not be surprised, were Tancred to go without
our permission.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed the duchess, starting in
her chair, but with as much consternation as confi-
dence in her countenance. 'Throughout his life he
has never disobeyed us.'

84 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'And that is an additional reason,' said the duke,
quietly, but in his sweetest tone, 'why we should
not treat as a light ebullition this first instance of his
preferring his own will to that of his father and
mother/

'He has been so much away from us these last
three years,* said the duchess in a tone of great de-
pression, 'and they are such important years in the
formation of character! But Mr. Bernard, he ought
to have been aware of all this ; he ought to have
known what was passing through his pupil's mind;
he ought to have warned us. Let us speak to him;
let us speak to him at once. Ring, my dear George,
and request the attendance of Mr. Bernard.*

That gentleman, who was in the library, kept
them waiting but a few minutes. As he entered the
room, he perceived, by the countenances of his noble
patrons, that something remarkable, and probably not
agreeable, had occurred. The duke opened the case
to Mr. Bernard with calmness; he gave an outline of
the great catastrophe; the duchess filled up the parts,
and invested the whole with a rich and even terrible
colouring.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the late
private tutor of Lord Montacute. He was fairly over-
come; the communication itself was startling, the ac-
cessories overwhelmed him. The unspoken reproaches
that beamed from the duke's mild eye; the withering
glance of maternal desolation that met him from the
duchess; the rapidity of her anxious and agitated
questions; all were too much for the simple, though
correct, mind of one unused to those passionate de-
velopments which are commonly called scenes. All
that Mr. Bernard for some time could do was to sit

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with his eyes staring and mouth open, and re-
peat, with a bewildered air, 'The Holy Land, the
Holy Sepulchre!' No, most certainly not; most as-
suredly; never in any way, by any word or deed,
had Lord Montacute ever given him reason to sup-
pose or imagine that his lordship intended to make a
pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, or that he was in-
fluenced by any of those views and opinions which
he had so strangely and so uncompromisingly ex-
pressed to his father.

*But, Mr. Bernard, you have been his companion,
his instructor, for many years,' continued the duchess,
* for the last three years especially, years so important
in the formation of character. You have seen much
more of Montacute than we have. Surely you must
have had some idea of what was passing in his mind;
you could not help knowing it; you ought to have
known it; you ought to have warned, to have pre-
pared us.'

'Madam,' at length said Mr. Bernard, more col-
lected, and feeling the necessity and excitement of
self-vindication, 'Madam, your noble son, under my
poor tuition, has taken the highest honours of his
university; his moral behaviour during that period has
been immaculate; and as for his religious sentiments,
even this strange scheme proves that they are, at any
rate, of no light and equivocal character.'

'To lose such a son!' exclaimed the duchess, in a
tone of anguish, and with streaming eyes.

The duke took her hand, and would have soothed
her; and then, turning to Mr. Bernard, he said, in a
lowered tone, 'We are very sensible how much we
owe you; the duchess equally with myself. All we
regret is, that some of us had not obtained a more

86 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

intimate acquaintance with the character of my son
than it appears we have acquired.'

*My lord duke,' said Mr. Bernard, * had yourself
or her Grace ever spoken to me on this subject, I
would have taken the liberty of expressing what I
say now. I have ever found Lord Montacute inscru-
table. He has formed himself in solitude, and has
ever repelled any advance to intimacy, either from
those who were his inferiors or his equals in station.
He has never had a companion. As for myself, dur-
ing the ten years that I have had the honour of be-
ing connected with him, I cannot recall a word or a
deed on his part which towards me has not been
courteous and considerate; but as a child he was shy
and silent, and as a man, for I have looked upon
him as a man in mind for these four or even five
years, he has employed me as his machine to obtain
knowledge. It is not very flattering to oneself to
make these confessions, but at Oxford he had the
opportunity of communicating with some of the most
eminent men of our time, and I have always learnt
from them the same result. Lord Montacute never
disburthened. His passion for study has been ardent;
his power of application is very great; his attention
unwearied as long as there is anything to acquire;
but he never seeks your opinions, and never offers
his own. The interview of yesterday with your
Grace is the only exception with which I am ac-
quainted, and at length throws some light on the
mysteries of his mind.'

The duke looked sad; his wife seemed plunged in
profound thought; there was a silence of many mo-
ments. At length the duchess looked up, and said,
in a calmer tone, and with an air of great serious-

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87

ness, ' It seems that we have mistaken the character
of our son. Thank you very much for coming to us
so quickly in our trouble, Mr. Bernard. It was very
kind, as you always are.* Mr. Bernard took the hint,
rose, bowed, and retired.

The moment that he had quitted the room, the
eyes of the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont met. Who
was to speak first? The duke had nothing to say,
and therefore he had the advantage: the duchess
wished her husband to break the silence, but, having
something to say herself, she could not refrain from
interrupting it. So she said, with a tearful eye,
'Well, George, what do you think we ought to do?'

The duke had a great mind to propose his plan of
sending Tancred to Jerusalem, with Colonel Brace,
Mr. Bernard, and Mr. Roby, to take care of him, but
he hardly thought the occasion was ripe enough for
that; and so he suggested that the duchess should
speak to Tancred herself.

'No,' said her Grace, shaking her head, *I think it
better for me to be silent; at least at present. It is
necessary, however, that the most energetic means
should be adopted to save him, nor is there a mo-
ment to be lost. We must shrink from nothing for
such an object. I have a plan. We will put the
whole matter in the hands of our friend, the bishop.
We will get him to speak to Tancred. I entertain
not a doubt that the bishop will put his mind all
right; clear all his doubts; remove all his scruples.
The bishop is the only person, because, you see, it is
a case political as well as theological, and the bishop
is a great statesman as well as the first theologian of
the age. Depend upon it, my dear George, that this
is the wisest course, and, with the blessing of Provi-

15 B. D.— 19

88 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

dence, will effect our purpose. It is, perhaps, asking
a good deal of the bishop, considering his important
and multifarious duties, to undertake this office, but
we must not be delicate when everything is at stake;
and, considering he christened and confirmed Tancred,
and our long friendship, it is quite out of the question
that he can refuse. However, there is no time to be
lost. We must get to town as soon as possible; to-
morrow, if we can. I shall advance affairs by writ-
ing to the bishop on the subject, and giving him an
outline of the case, so that he may be prepared to
see Tancred at once on our arrival. What think you,
George, of my plan?'

' I think it quite admirable,' replied his Grace, only
too happy that there was at least the prospect of a
lull of a few days in this great embarrassment.

CHAPTER X.

A Visionary.

BOUT the time of the marriage of
the Duchess of Bellamont, her noble
family, and a few of their friends,
some of whom also beheved in
the millennium, were persuaded
that the conversion of the Roman
Catholic population of Ireland to the true faith,
which was their own, was at hand. They had sub-
scribed very liberally for the purpose, and formed an
amazing number of sub-committees. As long as their
funds lasted, their missionaries found proselytes. It
was the last desperate effort of a Church that had
from the first betrayed its trust. Twenty years ago,
statistics not being so much in vogue, and the people
of England being in the full efflorescence of that pub-
lic ignorance which permitted them to believe them-
selves the most enlightened nation in the world, the
Irish * difficulty' was not quite so well understood as
at the present day. It was then an established doc-
trine, and all that was necessary for Ireland was more
Protestantism, and it was supposed to be not more
difficult to supply the Irish with Protestantism than it
had proved, in the instance of a recent famine, 1822,

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90 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

to furnish them with potatoes. What was principally
wanted in both cases were subscriptions.

When the English public, therefore, were assured
by their co-religionists on the other side of St. George's
Channel, that at last the good work was doing; that
the flame spread, even rapidly; that not only parishes
but provinces were all agog, and that both town and
country were quite in a heat of proselytism, they be-
gan to believe that at last the scarlet lady was about
to be dethroned; they loosened their purse-strings;
fathers of families contributed their zealous five pounds,
followed by every other member of the household, to
the babe in arms, who subscribed its fanatical five
shillings. The affair looked well. The journals teemed
with lists of proselytes and cases of conversion; and
even orderly, orthodox people, who were firm in
their own faith, but wished others to be permitted to
pursue their errors in peace, began to congratulate
each other on the prospect of our at last becoming a
united Protestant people.

In the blaze and thick of the affair, Irish Protes-
tants jubilant, Irish Papists denouncing the whole
movement as fraud and trumpery, John Bull per-
plexed, but excited, and still subscribing, a young
bishop rose in his place in the House of Lords, and,
with a vehemence there unusual, declared that he
saw *the finger of God in this second Reformation,'
and, pursuing the prophetic vein and manner, de-
nounced 'woe to those who should presume to lift
up their hands and voices in vain and impotent at-
tempts to stem the flood of light that was bursting
over Ireland.'

In him, who thus plainly discerned 'the finger of
God' in transactions in which her family and feel-

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ings were so deeply interested, the young and en-
thusiastic Duchess of Bellamont instantly recognised
the 'man of God;' and from that moment the right
reverend prelate became, in all spiritual affairs, her
infallible instructor, although the impending second
Reformation did chance to take the untoward form of
the emancipation of the Roman Catholics, followed in
due season by the destruction of Protestant bishoprics,
the sequestration of Protestant tithes, and the endow-
ment of Maynooth.

In speculating on the fate of public institutions and
the course of public affairs, it is important that we should
not permit our attention to be engrossed by the prin-
ciples on which they are founded and the circum-
stances which they present, but that we should also
remember how much depends upon the character of
the individuals who are in the position to superintend
or to direct them.

The Church of England, mainly from its deficiency
of oriental knowledge, and from a misconception of
the priestly character which has been the conse-
quence of that want, has fallen of late years into
great straits; nor has there ever been a season when
it has more needed for its guides men possessing the
higher qualities both of intellect and disposition.
About five-and-twenty years ago, it began to be dis-
cerned that the time had gone by, at least in Eng-
land, for bishoprics to serve as appanages for the
younger sons of great families. The Arch-Mediocrity
who then governed this country, and the mean tenor
of whose prolonged administration we have delineated
in another work, was impressed with the necessity
of reconstructing the episcopal bench on principles of
personal distinction and ability. But his notion of

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

clerical capacity did not soar higher than a private
tutor who had suckled a young noble into university
honours; and his test of priestly celebrity was the
decent editorship of a Greek play. He sought for the
successors of the apostles, for the stewards of the
mysteries of Sinai and of Calvary, among third-rate
hunters after syllables.

These men, notwithstanding their elevation, with
one exception, subsided into their native insignifi-
cance; and during our agitated age, when the prin-
ciples of all institutions, sacred and secular, have
been called in question; when, alike in the senate
and the market-place, both the doctrine and the
discipline of the Church have been impugned, its
power assailed, its authority denied, the amount of
its revenues investigated, their disposition criticised,
and both attacked; not a voice has been raised by
these mitred nullities, either to warn or to vindicate;
not a phrase has escaped their lips or their pens, that
ever influenced public opinion, touched the heart of
nations, or guided the conscience of a perplexed peo-
ple. If they were ever heard of it was that they had
been pelted in a riot.

The exception which we have mentioned to their
sorry careers was that of the too adventurous prophet
of the second Reformation; the ductor dubitantium
appealed to by the Duchess of Bellamont, to con-
vince her son that the principles of religious truth,
as well as of political justice, required no further in-
vestigation; at least by young marquesses.

The ready audacity with which this right reverend
prelate had stood sponsor for the second Reformation
is a key to his character. He combined a great
talent for action with very limited powers of thought.

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Bustling, energetic, versatile, gifted with an indom-
itable perseverance, and stimulated by an ambition
that knew no repose, with a capacity for mastering
details and an inordinate passion for affairs, he could
permit nothing to be done without his interference,
and consequently was perpetually involved in trans-
actions which were either failures or blunders. He
was one of those leaders who are not guides. Hav-
ing little real knowledge, and not endowed with
those high qualities of intellect which permit their
possessor to generalise the details afforded by study
and experience, and so deduce rules of conduct, his
lordship, when he received those frequent appeals
which were the necessary consequence of his olficious
life, became obscure, confused, contradictory, incon-
sistent, illogical. The oracle was always dark.

Placed in a high post in an age of political analy-
sis, the bustling intermeddler was unable to supply
society with a single solution. Enunciating second-
hand, with characteristic precipitation, some big
principle in vogue, as if he were a discoverer, he in-
variably shrank from its subsequent application the
moment that he found it might be unpopular and
inconvenient. All his quandaries terminated in the
same catastrophe; a compromise. Abstract principles
with him ever ended in concrete expediency. The
aggregate of circumstances outweighed the isolated
cause. The primordial tenet, which had been advo-
cated with uncompromising arrogance, gently sub-
sided into some second-rate measure recommended
with all the artifice of an impenetrable ambiguity.

Beginning with the second Reformation, which
was a little rash but dashing, the bishop, always
ready, had in the course of his episcopal career placed

94 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

himself at the head of every movement in the Church
which others had originated, and had as regularly
withdrawn at the right moment, when the heat was
over, or had become, on the contrary, excessive.
Furiously evangelical, soberly high and dry, and fer-
vently Puseyite, each phasis of his faith concludes
with what the Spaniards term a 'transaction.' The
saints are to have their new churches, but they are
also to have their rubrics and their canons; the uni-
versities may supply successors to the apostles, but
they are also presented with a church commission;
even the Puseyites may have candles on their altars,
but they must not be lighted.

It will be seen, therefore, that his lordship was
one of those characters not ill-adapted to an eminent
station in an age like the present, and in a country
like our own; an age of movement, but of confused
ideas; a country of progress, but too rich to risk
much change. Under these circumstances, the spirit
of a period and a people seeks a safety-valve in bus-
tle. They do something, lest it be said that they do
nothing. At such a time, ministers recommend their
measures as experiments, and parliaments are ever
ready to rescind their votes. Find a man who, totally
destitute of genius, possesses nevertheless considerable
talents; who has official aptitude, a volubility of rou-
tine rhetoric, great perseverance, a love of affairs;
who, embarrassed neither by the principles of the
philosopher nor by the prejudices of the bigot, can
assume, with a cautious facility, the prevalent tone,
and disembarrass himself of it, with a dexterous am-
biguity, the moment it ceases to be predominant;
recommending himself to the innovator by his ap-
probation of change 'in the abstract,' and to the con-

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95

servative by his prudential and practical respect for
that which is established; such a man, though he be
one of an essentially small mind, though his intel-
lectual qualities be less than moderate, with feeble
powers of thought, no imagination, contracted sym-
pathies, and a most loose public morality; such a
man is the individual whom kings and parliaments
would select to govern the State or rule the Church.
Change, 'in the abstract,' is what is wanted by a
people who are at the same time inquiring and
wealthy. Instead of statesmen they desire shufflers;
and compromise in conduct and ambiguity in speech
are, though nobody will confess it, the public qualities
now most in vogue.

Not exactly, however, those calculated to meet the
case of Tancred. The interview was long, for Tan-
cred hstened with apparent respect and deference to
the individual under whose auspices he had entered
the Church of Christ; but the replies to his inquiries,
though more adroit than the duke's, were in reality
not more satisfactory, and could not, in any way,
meet the inexorable logic of Lord Montacute. The
bishop was as little able as the duke to indicate the
principle on which the present order of things in
England was founded; neither faith nor its conse-
quence, duty, was at all illustrated or invigorated by
his handling. He utterly failed in reconciling a belief
in ecclesiastical truth with the support of religious
dissent. When he tried to define in whom the
power of government should repose, he was lost in
a maze of phrases, and afforded his pupil not a single
fact.

*It cannot be denied,' at length said Tancred, with
great calmness, 'that society was once regulated by

96 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

God, and that now it is regulated by man. For my
part, I prefer divine to self-government, and I wish to
know how it is to be attained.'

'The Church represents God upon earth,* said thft
bishop.

' But the Church no longer governs man,' replied
Tancred.

'There is a great spirit rising in the Church,' ob-
served the bishop, with thoughtful solemnity; 'a great
and excellent spirit. The Church of 1845 is not the
Church of 1745. We must remember that; we know
not what may happen. We shall soon see a bishop
at Manchester.'

'But I want to see an angel at Manchester.'

' An angel ! '

'Why not? Why should there not be heavenly
messengers, when heavenly messages are most
wanted ? '

'We have received a heavenly message by one
greater than the angels,' said the bishop. 'Their
visits to man ceased with the mightier advent.'

'Then why did angels appear to Mary and her
companions at the holy tomb?' inquired Tancred.

The interview from which so much was anticipated
was not satisfactory. The eminent prelate did not
realise Tancred's ideal of a bishop, while his lordship
did not hesitate to declare that Lord Montacute was
a visionary.

CHAPTER XI.

Advice from a Man of the World.

HEN the duchess found that the in-
terview with the bishop had been
fruitless of the anticipated results,
she was staggered, disheartened;
but she was a woman of too high
a spirit to succumb under a first
defeat. She was of opinion that his lordship had
misunderstood the case, or had mismanaged it; her
confidence in him, too, was not so illimitable since
he had permitted the Puseyites to have candles on
their altars, although he had forbidden their being
lighted, as when he had declared, twenty years be-
fore, that the finger of God was about to protestantise
Ireland. His lordship had said and had done many
things since that time which had occasioned the
duchess many misgivings, although she had chosen
that they should not occur to her recollection until
he failed in convincing her son that religious truth
was to be found in the parish of St. James, and
political justice in the happy haunts of Montacute
Forest.

The bishop had voted for the Church Temporalities'
Bill in 1833, which at one swoop had suppressed ten

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98 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Irish episcopates. This was a queer suffrage for the
apostle of the second Reformation. True it is that
Whiggism was then in the ascendant, and two years
afterwards, when Whiggism had received a heavy
blow and great discouragement; when we had been
blessed in the interval with a decided though feeble
Conservative administration, and were blessed at the
moment with a strong though undecided Conservative
opposition; his lordship, with characteristic activity,
had galloped across country into the right line
again, denounced the Appropriation Clause in a spirit
worthy of his earlier days, and, quite forgetting the
ten Irish bishoprics, that only four-and-twenty months
before he had doomed to destruction, was all for
proselytising Ireland again by the efficacious means of
Irish Protestant bishops.

*The bishop says that Tancred is a visionary,' said
the duchess to her husband, with an air of great dis-
pleasure. 'Why, it is because he is a visionary that
we sent him to the bishop. I want to have his false
imaginings removed by one who has the competent
powers of learning and argument, and the authority
of a high and holy office. A visionary, indeed! Why,
so are the Puseyites; they are visionaries, and his
lordship has been obliged to deal with them ; though,
to be sure, if he spoke to Tancred in a similar fashion,
I am not surprised that my son has returned un-
changed! This is the most vexatious business that ever
occurred to us. Something must be done; but what
to fix on ? What do you think, George ? Since
speaking to the bishop, of which you so much ap-
proved, has failed, what do you recommend?'

While the duchess was speaking, she was seated
in her boudoir, looking into the Green Park; the

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99

duke's horses were in the courtyard, and he was
about to ride down to the House of Lords; he had
just looked in, as was his custom, to say farewell till
they met again.

'1 am sorry that the interview with the bishop
has failed,* said the duke, in a hesitating tone, and
playing with his riding-stick; and then walking up to
the window and looking into the Park, he said, ap-
parently after reflection, * I always think the best per-
son to deal with a visionary is a man of the world.'

'But what can men of the world know of such
questions?' said the duchess, mournfully.

'Very little,' said her husband, 'and therefore they
are never betrayed into arguments, which 1 fancy al-
ways make people more obstinate, even if they are
confuted. Men of the world have a knack of settling
everything without discussion; they do it by tact.
It is astonishing how many difficulties I have seen
removed — by Eskdale, for example — which it seemed
that no power on earth could change, and about
which we had been arguing for months. There was
the Cheadle churches case, for example; it broke up
some of the oldest friendships in the county; even
Hungerford and llderton did not speak. I never had
a more anxious time of it; and, as far as I was per-
sonally concerned, I would have made any sacrifice
to keep a good understanding in the county. At last
I got the business referred to Eskdale, and the
affair was ultimately arranged to everybody's satisfac-
tion. 1 don't know how he managed: it was quite
impossible that he could have offered any new argu-
ments, but he did it by tact. Tact does not re-
move difficulties, but difficulties melt away under
tact.'

loo BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'Heigho!' sighed the duchess. 'I cannot under-
stand how tact can tell us what is religious truth, or
prevent my son from going to the Holy Sepulchre.'

'Try,' said the duke.

* Shall you see our cousin to-day, George?'

'He is sure to be at the House,' replied the duke,
eagerly. 'I tell you what I propose, Kate: Tancred
is gone to the House of Commons to hear the debate
on Maynooth; I will try and get our cousin to come
home and dine with us, and then we can talk over
the whole affair at once. What say you?'

'Very well.'

'We have failed with a bishop; we will now try
a man of the world; and if we are to have a man of
the world, we had better have a firstrate one, and
everybody agrees that our cousin '

'Yes, yes, George,' said the duchess, 'ask him to
come; tell him it is very urgent, that we must
consult him immediately; and then, if he be engaged,
I dare say he will manage to come all the same.'

Accordingly, about half-past eight o'clock, the two
peers arrived at Bellamont House together. They
were unexpectedly late; they had been detained at
the House. The duke was excited; even Lord Esk-
dale looked as if something had happened. Some-
thing had happened; there had been a division in the
House of Lords. Rare and startling event! It seemed
as if the peers were about to resume their functions.
Divisions in the House of Lords are now-a-days so
thinly scattered, that, when one occurs, the peers
cackle as if they had laid an egg. They are quite
proud of the proof of their still procreative powers.
The division to-night had not been on a subject of
any public interest or importance; but still it was a

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lOI

division, and, what was more, the Government had
been left in a minority. True, the catastrophe was
occasioned by a mistake. The dictator had been
asleep during the debate, woke suddenly from a dys-
peptic dream, would make a speech, and spoke on
the wrong side. A lively colleague, not yet suffi-
ciently broken in to the frigid discipline of the High
Court of Registry, had pulled the great man once by
his coat-tails, a House of Commons practice, permit-
ted to the Cabinet when their chief is blundering,
very necessary sometimes for a lively leader, but of
which Sir Robert highly disapproves, as the arrange-
ment of his coat-tails, next to beating the red box,
forms the most important part of his rhetorical acces-
sories. The dictator, when he at length compre-
hended that he had made a mistake, persisted in
adhering to it; the division was called, some of the
officials escaped, the rest were obliged to vote with
their ruthless master; but his other friends, glad of an
opportunity of asserting their independence and ad-
ministering to the dictator a slight check in a quiet
inoffensive way, put him in a minority; and the Duke
of Bellamont and Lord Eskdale had contributed to
this catastrophe.

Dinner was served in the library; the conversation
during it was chiefly the event of the morning. The
duchess, who, though not a partisan, was something
of a politician, thought it was a pity that the dictator
had ever stepped out of his military sphere; her hus-
band, who had never before seen a man's coat-tails
pulled when he was speaking, dilated much upon the
singular circumstance of Lord Spur so disporting him-
self on the present occasion; while Lord Eskdale, who
had sat for a long time in the House of Commons,

I02 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

and who was used to everything, assured his cousin that
the custom, though odd, was by no means irregular.
M remember/ said his lordship, 'seeing Ripon, when
he was Robinson, and Huskisson, each pulling one of
Canning's coat-tails at the same time.'

Throughout dinner not a word about Tancred.
Lord Eskdale neither asked where he was nor how he
was. At length, to the great relief of the duchess,
dinner was finished; the servants had disappeared.
The duke pushed away the table; they drew their
chairs round the hearth; Lord Eskdale took half a
glass of Madeira, then stretched his legs a little, then
rose, stirred the fire, and then, standing with his back
to it and his hands in his pockets, said, in a careless
tone approaching to a drawl, 'And so, duchess, Tan-
cred wants to go to Jerusalem?'

'George has told you, then, all our troubles?'

'Only that; he left the rest to you, and 1 came to
hear it.'

Whereupon the duchess went off, and spoke for a
considerable time with great animation and ability,
the duke hanging on every word with vigilant interest,
Lord Eskdale never interrupting her for an instant;
while she stated the case not only with the impas-
sioned feeling of a devoted mother, but occasionally
with all the profundity of a theologian. She did not
conceal from him the interview between Tancred and
the bishop; it was her last effort, and had failed; and
so, 'after all our plans,' she ended, 'as far as I can
form an opinion, he is absolutely more resolved than
ever to go to Jerusalem.'

'Well,' said his lordship, 'it is at least better than
going to the Jews, which most men do at his time
of hfe.'

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103

*I cannot agree even to that,' said the duchess;
*for I would rather that he should be ruined than
die.'

'Men do not die as they used,' said his lordship.
*Ask the annuity offices; they have all raised their
rates.'

* I know nothing about annuity offices, but I know
that almost everybody dies who goes to those coun-
tries; look at young Fernborough, he was just Tan-
cred's age; the fevers alone must kill him.'

*He must take some quinine in his dressing-case,'
said Lord Eskdale.

*You jest, Henry,' said the duchess, disappointed,
'when I am in despair.'

'No,* said Lord Eskdale, looking up to the ceiling,
M am thinking how you may prevent Tancred from
going to Jerusalem, without, at the same time, op-
posing his wishes.'

*Ay, ay,' said the duke, 'that is it.' And he
looked triumphantly to his wife, as much as to say,
'Now you see what it is to be a man of the world.'

'A man cannot go to Jerusalem as he would to
Birmingham, by the next train,' continued his lord-
ship; 'he must get something to take him; and if
you make the sacrifice of consenting to his departure,
you have a right to stipulate as to the manner in
which he should depart. Your son ought to travel
with a suite; he ought to make the voyage in his
own yacht. Yachts are not to be found like hack
cabs, though there are several for sale now; but then
they are not of the admeasurement of which you ap-
prove for such a voyage and such a sea. People talk
very lightly of the Mediterranean, but there are such
things as white squalls. Anxious parents, and parents

15 B. D.— 20

I04 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

so fond of a son as you are, and a son whose life for
so many reasons is so precious, have a right to make
it a condition of their consent to his departure, that
he should embark in a vessel of considerable tonnage.
He will find difficulty in buying one second-hand; if
he finds one it will not please him. He will get in-
terested in yacht-building, as he is interested now
about Jerusalem: both boyish fancies. He will stay
another year in England to build a yacht to take him
to the Holy Land; the yacht will be finished this
time twelvemonths; and, instead of going to Palestine,
he will go to Cowes.'

*That is quite my view of the case,' said the
duke.

*It never occurred to me,' said the duchess.

Lord Eskdale resumed his seat, and took another
half-glass of Madeira.

*Well, I think it is very satisfactory, Katherine,'
said the duke, after a short pause.

*And what do you recommend us to do first?'
said the duchess to Lord Eskdale.

'Let Tancred go into society: the best way for
him to forget Jerusalem is to let him see London.'

*But how can I manage it?' said the duchess. M
never go anywhere; nobody knows him, and he does
not wish to know anybody.'

*I will manage it, with your permission; 'tis not
difficult; a young marquess has only to evince an in-
clination, and in a week's time he will be every-
where. I will tell Lady St. Julians and the great
ladies to send him invitations; they will fall like a
snow-storm. All that remains is for you to prevail
upon him to accept them.'

* And how shall I contrive it ? ' said the duchess.

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105

'Easily,' said Lord Eskdale. 'Make his going into
society, while his yacht is preparing, one of the con-
ditions of the great sacrifice you are making. He
cannot refuse you: 'tis but the first step. A youth
feels a little repugnance to launching into the great
world: 'tis shyness; but after the plunge, the great
difficulty is to restrain rather than to incite. Let him
but once enter the world, and be tranquil, he will
soon find something to engage him.'

*As long as he does not take to play,' said the
duke, 'I do not much care what he does.*

'My dear George!' said the duchess, 'how can you
say such things! I was in hopes,' she added, in a
mournful tone, 'that we might have settled him,
without his entering what you call the world, Henry.
Dearest child! I fancy him surrounded by pitfalls.'

CHAPTER XII.

The Dreamer Enters Society.

FTER this consultation with Lord
Eskdale, the duchess became easier
in her mind. She was of a san-
guine temper, and with facility
believed what she wished. Affairs
stood thus : it was agreed by all that
Tancred should go to the Holy Land, but he was to
go in his own yacht; which yacht was to be of a
firstrate burthen, and to be commanded by an officer
in H.M.S. ; and he was to be accompanied by Colonel
Brace, Mr. Bernard, and Mr. Roby; and the servants
were to be placed entirely under the control of some
trusty foreigner accustomed to the East, and who was
to be chosen by Lord Eskdale. In the meantime,
Tancred had acceded to the wish of his parents, that
until his departure he should mix much in society.
The duchess calculated that, under any circumstances,
three months must elapse before all the arrangements
were concluded; and she felt persuaded that, during
that period, Tancred must become enamoured of his
cousin Katherine, and that the only use of the yacht
would be to take them all to Ireland. The duke was
resolved only on two points: that his son should do
exactly as his son liked, and that he himself would
(106)

TANCRED

never take the advice, on any subject, of any other
person than Lord Eskdale.

In the meantime Tancred was launched, almost
unconsciously, into the great world. The name of
the Marquess of Montacute was foremost in those del-
icate Hsts by which an eager and admiring public is
apprised who, among their aristocracy, eat, drink,
dance, and sometimes pray. From the saloons of Bel-
grave and Grosvenor Square to the sacred recesses of
the Chapel Royal, the movements of Lord Montacute
were tracked and registered, and were devoured
every morning, oftener with a keener relish than the
matin meal of which they formed a regular portion.
England is the only country which enjoys the un-
speakable advantage of being thus regularly, promptly,
and accurately furnished with catalogues of those
favoured beings who are deemed qualified to enter
the houses of the great. What condescension in those
who impart the information! What indubitable evi-
dence of true nobility! What superiority to all petty
vanity! And in those who receive it, what freedom
from all little feelings! No arrogance on one side; on
the other, no envy. It is only countries blessed with
a free press that can be thus favoured. Even a free
press is not alone sufficient. Besides a free press, you
must have a servile public.

After all, let us be just. The uninitiated world is apt
to believe that there is sometimes, in the outskirts of
fashion, an eagerness, scarcely consistent with self-
respect, to enter the mansions of the great. Not at
all: few people really want to go to their grand par-
ties. It is not the charms of conversation, the flash
of wit or the blaze of beauty, the influential presence
of the powerful and celebrated, all the splendour and

io8 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

refinement, which, combined, offer in a polished
saloon so much to charm the taste and satisfy the
intellect, that the mass of social partisans care any-
thing about. What they want is, not so much to be
in her ladyship's house as in her ladyship's list.
After the party at Coningsby Castle, our friend, Mrs.
Guy Flouncey, at length succeeded in being asked to
one of Lady St. Julians' assemblies. It was a great
triumph, and Mrs. Guy Flouncey determined to make
the most of it. She was worthy of the occasion.
But alas! next morning, though admitted to the rout,
Mrs. Guy Flouncey was left out of the list! It was a
severe blow! But Mrs. Guy Flouncey is in every list
now, and even strikes out names herself. But there
never was a woman who advanced with such dex-
terity.

Lord Montacute was much shocked, when, one
morning, taking up a journal, he first saw his name
in print. He was alone, and he blushed; felt, indeed,
extremely distressed, when he found that the English
people were formally made acquainted with the fact
that he had dined on the previous Saturday with the
Earl and Countess of St. Julians; 'a. grand banquet,'
of which he was quite unconscious until he read it;
and that he was afterwards ' observed ' at the Opera.

He found that he had become a public character,
and he was not by any means conscious of meriting
celebrity. To be pointed at as he walked the streets,
were he a hero, or had done, said, or written any-
thing that anybody remembered, though at first pain-
ful and embarrassing, for he was shy, he could
conceive ultimately becoming endurable, and not
without a degree of excitement, for he was ambitious;
but to be looked at because he was a young lord.

TANCRED

and that this should be the only reason why the pub-
lic should be informed where he dined, or where he
amused himself, seemed to him not only vexatious
but degrading. When he arrived, however, at a
bulletin of his devotions, he posted off immediately
to the Surrey Canal to look at a yacht there, and re-
solved not to lose unnecessarily one moment in set-
ting off for Jerusalem.

He had from the first busied himself about the
preparations for his voyage with all the ardour of
youth; that is, with all the energy of inexperience,
and all the vigour of simplicity. As everything
seemed to depend upon his obtaining a suitable
vessel, he trusted to no third person; had visited
Cowes several times; advertised in every paper; and
had already met with more than one yacht which at
least deserved consideration. The duchess was quite
frightened at his progress. ' I am afraid he has found
one,' she said to Lord Eskdale; 'he will be off di-
rectly.'

Lord Eskdale shook his head. 'There are always
things of this sort in the market. He will inquire
before he purchases, and he will find that he has got
hold of a slow coach.'

*A slow coach!' said the duchess, looking inquir-
ingly. 'What is that?'

'A tub that sails like a collier, and which, instead
of taking him to Jerusalem, will hardly take him to
Newcastle.'

Lord Eskdale was right. Notwithstanding all his
ardour, all his inquiries, visits to Cowes and the
Surrey Canal, advertisements and answers to adver-
tisements, time flew on, and Tancred was still with-
out a yacht.

no BENJAMIN DISRAELI

In this unsettled state, Tancred found himself one
evening at Deloraine House. It was not a ball, it
was only a dance, brilliant and select; but, all the
same, it seemed to Tancred that the rooms could not
be much more crowded. The name of the Marquess
of Montacute, as it was sent along by the servants,
attracted attention. Tancred had scarcely entered the
world, his appearance had made a sensation, every-
body talked of him, many had not yet seen him.

'Oh! that is Lord Montacute,' said a great lady,
looking through her glass; 'very distinguished!'

'I tell you what,' whispered Mr. Ormsby to Lord
Valentine, 'you young men had better look sharp;
Lord Montacute will cut you all out!*

'Oh! he is going to Jerusalem,' said Lord Val-
entine.

'Jerusalem!* said Mr. Ormsby, shrugging his
shoulders. 'What can he find to do at Jerusalem?*

'What, indeed,' said Lord Milford. 'My brother
was there in '39; he got leave after the bombardment
of Acre, and he says there is absolutely no sport of
any kind.'

'There used to be partridges in the time of Jere-
miah,' said Mr. Ormsby; 'at least they told us so at
the Chapel Royal last Sunday, where, by-the-bye, I
saw Lord Montacute for the first time; and a deuced
good-looking fellow he is,' he added, musingly.

'Well, there is not a bird in the whole country
now,' said Lord Milford.

'Montacute does not care for sport,' said Lord
Valentine.

'What does he care for?' asked Lord Milford.
'Because, if he wants any horses, I can let him have
some.*

I

TANCRED III

'He wants to buy a yacht,' said Lord Valentine;
'and that reminds me that I heard to-day Exmouth
wanted to get rid of "The Flower of Yarrow," and
I think it would suit my cousin. I'll tell him of it.'
And he followed Tancred.

' You and Valentine must rub up your harness, Mil-
ford,* said Mr. Ormsby; 'there is a new champion in
the field. We are talking of Lord Montacute,' continued
Mr. Ormsby, addressing himself to Mr. Melton, who
joined them; 'I tell Milford he will cut you all out.*

'Well,' said Mr. Melton, 'for my part I have had
so much success, that I have no objection, by way
of change, to be for once eclipsed.'

'Well done. Jemmy,' said Lord Milford.

'I see. Melton,' said Mr. Ormsby, 'you are recon-
ciled to your fate like a philosopher.'

'Well, Montacute,* said Lord St. Patrick, a good-
tempered, witty Milesian, with a laughing eye, 'when
are you going to Jericho?'

'Tell me,' said Tancred, in reply, and rather ear-
nestly, 'who is that?' And he directed the attention
of Lord St. Patrick to a young lady, rather tall, a
brilliant complexion, classic features, a profusion of
light brown hair, a face of intelligence, and a figure
rich and yet graceful,

'That is Lady Constance Rawleigh; if you like, I
will introduce you to her. She is my cousin, and
deuced clever. Come along!'

In the meantime, in the room leading to the
sculpture gallery where they are dancing, the throng
is even excessive. As the two great divisions, those
who would enter the gallery and those who are
quitting it, encounter each other, they exchange fly-
ing phrases as they pass.

112 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

*They told me you had gone to Paris! I have
just returned. Dear me, how time flies! Pretty
dance, is it not? Very. Do you know whether the
Madlethorpes mean to come up this year? I hardly
know; their little girl is very ill. Ah! so I hear;
what a pity, and such a fortune! Such a pity with
such a fortune! How d'ye do? Mr. Coningsby here?
No; he's at the House. They say he is a very close
attendant. It interests him. Well, Lady Florentina,
you never sent me the dances. Pardon, but you will
find them when you return. I lent them to Augusta,
and she would copy them. Is it true that I am to
congratulate you? Why? Lady Blanche? Oh! that
is a romance of Easter week. Well, I am really de-
lighted; I think such an excellent match for both;
exactly suited to each other. They think so. Well,
that is one point. How well Lady Everingham is
looking! She is quite herself again. Quite. Tell
me, have you seen M. de Talleyrand here? I spoke
to him but this moment. Shall you be at Lady
Blair's to-morrow ? No ; I have promised to go to
Mrs. Guy Flouncey's. She has taken Craven Cottage,
and is to be at home every Saturday. Well, if you
are going, I think I shall. I would; everybody will
be there.'

Lord Montacute had conversed some time with
Lady Constance; then he had danced with her; he
had hovered about her during the evening. It was
observed, particularly by some of the most experienced
mothers. Lady Constance was a distinguished beauty
of two seasons; fresh, but adroit. It was understood
that she had refused offers of a high calibre; but the
rejected still sighed about her, and it was therefore
supposed that, though decided, she had the art of

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113

not rendering them desperate. One at least of them
was of a rank equal to that of Tancred. She had
the reputation of being very clever, and of being able,
if it pleased her, to breathe scorpions as well as
brilliants and roses. It had got about that she ad-
mired intellect, and, though she claimed the highest
social position, that a booby would not content her,
even if his ears were covered with strawberry
leaves.

In the cloak-room, Tancred was still at her side,
and was presented to her mother. Lady Charmouth.

M am sorry to separate,' said Tancred.

'And so am 1,' said Lady Constance, smiling;
*but one advantage of this life is, we meet our friends
every day.'

'I am not going anywhere to-morrow, where
I shall meet you,' said Tancred, 'unless you chance
to dine at the Archbishop of York's.'

' I am not going to dine with the Archbishop of
York,* said Lady Constance, *but I am going, where
everybody else is going, to breakfast with Mrs. Guy
Flouncey, at Craven Cottage. Why, will not you be
there ? '

*I have not the honour of knowing her,' said
Tancred.

'That is not of the slightest consequence; she will
be very happy to have the honour of knowing you.
1 saw her in the dancing-room, but it is not worth
while waiting to speak to her now. You shall re-
ceive an invitation the moment you are awake.'

' But to-morrow I have an engagement. I have to
look at a yacht.'

'But that you can look at on Monday; besides, if
you wish to know anything about yachts, you had

114 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

better speak to my brother, Fitz-Heron, who has built
more than any man alive.'

' Perhaps he has one that he wishes to part with ? '
said Tancred.

' I have no doubt of it. You can ask him to-
morrow at Mrs. Guy Flouncey's.'

' I will. Lady Charmouth's carriage is called. May
I have the honour.^' said Tancred, offering his arm.

CHAPTER XIII.

A Feminine Diplomatist.

HERE is nothing so remarkable as
feminine influence. Although the
character of Tancred was not com-
pletely formed — for that result
depends, in some degree, upon the
effect of circumstances at a certain
time of life, as well as on the impulse of a natural
bent — still the temper of his being was profound and
steadfast. He had arrived, in solitude and by the
working of his own thought, at a certain resolution,
which had assumed to his strong and fervent imagi-
nation a sacred character, and which he was deter-
mined to accomplish at all costs. He had brought
himself to the point that he would not conceive an
obstacle that should baulk him. He had acceded to
the conditions which had been made by his parents,
for he was by nature dutiful, and wished to fulfil his
purpose, if possible, with their sanction.

Yet he had entered society with repugnance, and
found nothing in its general tone with which his
spirit harmonised. He was alone in the crowd; si-
lent, observing, and not charmed. There seemed to
him generally a want of simplicity and repose; too

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X

ii6 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

much flutter, not a little affectation. People met in
the thronged chambers, and interchanged brief words,
as if they were always in a hurry. 'Have you been
here long? Where are you going next?' These
were the questions which seemed to form the staple
of the small talk of a fashionable multitude. Why,
too, was there a smile on every countenance, which
often also assumed the character of a grin ? No error
so common or so grievous as to suppose that a smile
is a necessary ingredient of the pleasing. There are
few faces that can afford to smile. A smile is some-
times bewitching, in general vapid, often a contor-
tion. But the bewitching smile usually beams from
the grave face. It is then irresistible. Tancred,
though he was unaware of it, was gifted with this
rare spell. He had inherited it from his mother; a
woman naturally earnest and serious, and of a singu-
lar simplicity, but whose heart when pleased spoke
in the dimpling sunshine of her cheek with exquisite
beauty. The smiles of the Duchess of Bellamont,
however, were like her diamonds, brilliant, but rarely
worn.

Tancred had not mounted the staircase of Delo-
raine House with any anticipation of pleasure. His
thoughts were far away amid cities of the desert, and
by the palmy banks of ancient rivers. He often took
refuge in these exciting and ennobling visions, to
maintain himself when he underwent the ceremony
of entering a great house. He was so shy in little
things, that to hear his name sounded from servant
to servant, echoing from landing-place to landing-
place, was almost overwhelming. Nothing but his
pride, which was just equal to his reserve, prevented
him from often turning back on the stairs and pre-

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117

cipitately retreating. And yet he had not been ten
minutes in Deloraine House, before he had absolutely
requested to be introduced to a lady. It was the
first time he had ever made such a request.

He returned home, softly musing. A tone lingered
in his ear; he recalled the countenance of one absent.
In his dressing-room he lingered before he retired,
with his arm on the mantel-piece, and gazing with
abstraction on the fire.

When his servant called him, late in the morning,
he delivered to him a card from Mrs. Guy Flouncey,
inviting him on that day to Craven Cottage, at three
o'clock: 'dejeuner at four o'clock precisely.' Tancred
took the card, looked at it, and the letters seemed to
cluster together and form the countenance of Lady
Constance. *lt will be a good thing to go,' he said,
'because I want to know Lord Fitz-Heron; he will be
of great use to me about my yacht.' So he ordered
his carriage at three o'clock.

The reader must not for a moment suppose that
Mrs. Guy Flouncey, though she was quite as well
dressed, and almost as pretty, as she was when at
Coningsby Castle in 1837, was by any means the
same lady who then strove to amuse and struggled
to be noticed. By no means. In 1837, Mrs, Guy
Flouncey was nobody; in 1845, Mrs. Guy Flouncey
was somebody, and somebody of very great impor-
tance. Mrs. Guy Flouncey had invaded society, and
had conquered it, gradually, but completely, like the
English in India. Social invasions are not rare, but
they are seldom fortunate, or success, if achieved, is
partial, and then only sustained at immense cost, like
the French in Algiers.

The Guy Flounceys were not people of great for-

ii8 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

tune. They had a good fortune; seven or eight
thousand a year. But then, with an air of great
expenditure, even profusion, there was a basis of
good management. And a good fortune with good
management, and without that equivocal luxury, a
great country-house, is almost equal to the great for-
tune of a peer. But they not only had no country-
house, they had no children. And a good fortune,
with good management, no country-house, and no
children, is Aladdin's lamp.

Mr. Guy Flouncey was a sporting character. His
wife had impressed upon him that it was the only
way in which he could become fashionable and
acquainted with 'the best men.' He knew just
enough of the affair not to be ridiculous; and, for
the rest, with a great deal of rattle and apparent
heedlessness of speech and deed, he was really an ex-
tremely selfish and sufficiently shrewd person, who
never compromised himself. It is astonishing with
what dexterity Guy Flouncey could extricate himself
from the jaws of a friend, who, captivated by his
thoughtless candour and ostentatiously good heart,
might be induced to request Mr. Flouncey to lend
him a few hundreds, only for a few months, or, more
diplomatically, might beg his friend to become his
security for a few thousands, for a few years.

Mr. Guy Flouncey never refused these applications;
they were exactly those to which it delighted his heart
to respond, because nothing pleased him more than
serving a friend. But then he always had to write a
preliminary letter of preparation to his banker, or his
steward, or his confidential solicitor; and, by some
contrivance or other, without offending any one,
rather with the appearance of conferring an obliga-

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tion, it ended always by Mr. Guy Flouncey neither
advancing the hundreds, nor guaranteeing the thou-
sands. He had, indeed, managed, like many others,
to get the reputation of being what is called * a good
fellow;' though it would have puzzled his panegyrists
to allege a single act of his that evinced a good heart.

This sort of pseudo reputation, whether for good
or for evil, is not uncommon in the world. Man is
mimetic; judges of character are rare; we repeat with-
out thought the opinions of some third person, who
has adopted them without inquiry; and thus it often
happens that a proud, generous man obtains in time
the reputation of being *a screw,* because he has re-
fused to lend money to some impudent spendthrift,
who from that moment abuses him; and a cold-
hearted, civil-spoken personage, profuse in costless
services, with a spice of the parasite in him, or per-
haps hospitable out of vanity, is invested with all the
thoughtless sympathies of society, and passes current
as that most popular of characters, 'a good fellow.'

Guy Flouncey's dinners began to be talked of
among men: it became a sort of fashion, especially
among sporting men, to dine with Mr. Guy Flouncey,
and there they met Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Not an
opening ever escaped her. If a man had a wife, and
that wife was a personage, sooner or later, much as
she might toss her head at first, she was sure to
visit Mrs. Guy Flouncey, and, when she knew her,
she was sure to like her. The Guy Flounceys never
lost a moment; the instant the season was over, they
were at Cowes, then at a German bath, then at Paris,
then at an English country-house, then in London.

Seven years, to such people, was half a century of
social experience. They had half a dozen seasons in

15 B. D.— 21

I20 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

every year. Still, it was hard work, and not rapid. At
a certain point they stuck, as all do. Most people, then,
give it up; but patience, Buffon tells us, is genius, and
Mrs. Guy Flouncey was, in her way, a woman of
genius. Their dinners were, in a certain sense, es-
tabhshed: these in return brought them to a certain
degree into the dinner world; but balls, at least balls
of a high calibre, were few, and as for giving a ball
herself, Mrs. Guy Flouncey could no more presume
to think of that than of attempting to prorogue Par-
liament. The house, however, got really celebrated
for 'the best men.' Mrs. Guy Flouncey invited all the
young dancing lords to dinner. Mothers will bring
their daughters where there are young lords. Mrs.
Guy Flouncey had an opera-box in the best tier,
which she took only to lend to her friends; and a box
at the French play, which she took only to bribe her
foes. They were both at everybody's service, like
Mr. Guy Flouncey's yacht, provided the persons who
required them were members of that great world in
which Mrs. Guy Flouncey had resolved to plant her-
self.

Mrs. Guy Flouncey was pretty; she was a flirt on
principle; thus she had caught the Marquess of Beau-
manoir, who, if they chanced to meet, always spoke
to her, which gave Mrs. Guy Flouncey fashion. But
Mrs. Guy Flouncey was nothing more than a flirt.
She never made a mistake; she was born with strong
social instincts. She knew that the fine ladies among
whom, from the first, she had determined to place
herself, were moral martinets with respect to any one
not born among themselves. That which is not ob-
served, or, if noticed, playfully alluded to in the con-
duct of a patrician dame, is visited with scorn and

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121

contumely if committed by some 'shocking woman,'
who has deprived perhaps a countess of the affec-
tions of a husband who has not spoken to her for
years. But if the countess is to lose her husband,
she ought to lose him to a viscountess, at least. In
this way the earl is not lost to 'society.'

A great nobleman met Mrs. Guy Flouncey at a
country-house, and was fairly captivated by her. Her
pretty looks, her coquettish manner, her vivacity, her
charming costume, above all, perhaps, her imperturb-
able good temper, pierced him to the heart. The
great nobleman's wife had the weakness to be an-
noyed. Mrs. Guy Flouncey saw her opportunity.
She threw over the earl, and became the friend of
the countess, who could never sufficiently evince her
gratitude to the woman who would not make love
to her husband. This friendship was the incident for
which Mrs. Guy Flouncey had been cruising for
years. Men she had vanquished; they had given her
a sort of ton which she had prudently managed. She
had not destroyed herself by any fatal preference.
Still, her fashion among men necessarily made her
unfashionable among women, who, if they did not
absolutely hate her, which they would have done had
she had a noble lover, were determined not to help
her up the social ladder. Now she had a great friend,
and one of the greatest of ladies. The moment she
had pondered over for years had arrived. Mrs. Guy
Flouncey determined at once to test her position.
Mrs. Guy Flouncey resolved on giving a ball.

But some of our friends in the country will say,
' Is that all ? Surely it required no very great resolu-
tion, no very protracted pondering, to determine on
giving a ball ! Where is the difficulty The lady has

122 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

but to light up her house, hire the fiddlers, line her
staircase with American plants, perhaps enclose her
balcony, order Mr. Gunter to provide plenty of the
best refreshments, and at one o'clock a superb sup-
per, and, with the company of your friends, you
have as good a ball as can be desired by the young,
or endured by the old.'

Innocent friends in the country! You might have
all these things. Your house might be decorated like
a Russian palace, blazing with the most brilliant lights
and breathing the richest odours; you might have
Jullien presiding over your orchestra, and a banquet
worthy of the Romans. As for your friends, they
might dance until daybreak, and agree that there
never was an entertainment more tasteful, more
sumptuous, and, what would seem of the first im-
portance, more merry. But, having all these things,
suppose you have not a list ? You have given a ball,
you have not a list. The reason is obvious: you are
ashamed of your guests. You are not in ' society.'

But even a list is not sufficient for success. You
must also get a day: the most difficult thing in the
world. After inquiring among your friends, and
studying the columns of the Morning Post, you dis-
cover that, five weeks hence, a day is disengaged.
You send out your cards; your house is dismantled;
your lights are arranged; the American plants have
arrived; the band, perhaps two bands, are engaged.
Mr. Gunter has half dressed your supper, and made
all your ice, when suddenly, within eight-and-forty
hours of the festival which you have been five weeks
preparing, the Marchioness of Deloraine sends out
cards for a ball in honour of some European sover-
eign who has just alighted on our isle, and means

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123

to stay only a week, and at whose court, twenty
years ago, Lord Deloraine was ambassador. Instead
of receiving your list, you are obliged to send mes-
sengers in all directions to announce that your ball is
postponed, although you are perfectly aware that not
a single individual would have been present whom
you would have cared to welcome.

The ball is postponed; and next day the Morning
Post informs us it is postponed to that day week;
and the day after you have circulated this interesting
intelligence, you yourself, perhaps, have the gratifica-
tion of receiving an invitation, for the same day, to
Lady St. Julians': with 'dancing' neatly engraved in
the corner. You yield in despair; and there are some
ladies who, with every quahfication for an excellent
ball — guests, Gunter, American plants, pretty daugh-
ters— have been watching and waiting for years for
an opportunity of giving it; and at last, quite hope-
less, at the end of the season, expend their funds in
a series of Greenwich banquets, which sometimes for-
tunately produce the results expected from the more
imposing festivity.

You see, therefore, that giving a ball is not that
matter-of-course affair you imagined; and that for Mrs.
Guy Flouncey to give a ball and succeed, completely,
triumphantly to succeed, was a feat worthy of that
fine social general. Yet she did it. The means, like
everything that is great, were simple. She induced
her noble friend to ask her guests. Her noble friend
canvassed for her as if it were a county election of
the good old days, when the representation of a shire
was the certain avenue to a peerage, instead of being,
as it is now, the high road to a poor-law commis-
sionership. Many were very glad to make the ac-

124 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

quaintance of Mrs. Guy Flouncey; many only wanted
an excuse to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Guy
Flouncey; they went to her party because they were
asked by their dear friend, Lady Kingcastle. As for
the potentates, there is no disguise on these subjects
among them. They went to Mrs. Guy Flouncey's
ball because one who was their equal, not only in
rank, but in social influence, had requested it as a
personal favour, she herself, when the occasion offered,
being equally ready to advance their wishes. The
fact was, that affairs were ripe for the recognition of
Mrs. Guy Flouncey as a member of the social body.
Circumstances had been long maturing. The Guy
Flounceys, who, in the course of their preparatory
career, had hopped from Park Crescent to Portman
Square, had now perched upon their 'splendid man-
sion' in Belgrave Square. Their dinners were re-
nowned. Mrs. Guy Flouncey was seen at ail the
'best balls,' and was always surrounded by the 'best
men.' Though a flirt and a pretty woman, she was a
discreet parvenue, who did not entrap the affections of
noble husbands. Above all, she was the friend of
Lady Kingcastle, who called her and her husband
'those good Guy Flounceys.'

The ball was given; you could not pass through
Belgrave Square that night. The list was published;
it formed two columns of the Morning Post. Lady
Kingcastle was honoured by the friendship of a royal
duchess. She put the friendship to the proof, and her
royal highness was seen at Mrs. Guy Flouncey's ball.
Imagine the reception, the canopy, the scarlet cloth,
the 'God save the King' from the band of the first
guards, bivouacked in the hall, Mrs. Guy Flouncey
herself performing her part as if she had received

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princesses of the blood all her life; so reverent and
yet so dignified, so very calm and yet with a sort of
winning, sunny innocence. Her royal highness was
quite charmed with her hostess, praised her much to
Lady Kingcastle, told her that she was glad that she
had come, and even stayed half an hour longer than
Mrs. Guy Flouncey had dared to hope. As for the
other guests, the peerage was gutted. The Dictator
himself was there, and, the moment her royal high-
ness had retired, Mrs. Guy Flouncey devoted herself
to the hero. All the great ladies, all the ambassadors,
all the beauties, a full chapter of the Garter, a chorus
among the 'best men' that it was without doubt the
'best bair of the year, happy Mrs. Guy Flouncey!
She threw a glance at her swing-glass while Mr. Guy
Flouncey, who ' had not had time to get anything the
whole evening,' was eating some supper on a tray in
her dressing-room at five o'clock in the morning, and
said, 'We have done it at last, my love!'

She was right; and from that moment Mrs. Guy
Flouncey was asked to all the great houses, and be-
came a lady of the most unexceptionable ton.

But all this time we are forgetting her d^jettner,
and that Tancred is winding his way through the
garden lanes of Fulham to reach Craven Cottage.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Coningsbys.

HE day was brilliant: music, sun-
shine, ravishing bonnets, little para-
sols that looked like large butterflies.
The new phaetons ghded up,
then carriages-and-four swept by;
in general the bachelors were en-
sconced in their comfortable broughams, with their
glasses down and their blinds drawn, to receive the
air and to exclude the dust; some less provident were
cavaliers, but, notwithstanding the well-watered roads,
seemed a little dashed as they cast an anxious glance
at the rose which adorned their button-hole, or fan-
cied that they felt a flying black from a London chim-
ney light upon the tip of their nose.

Within, the winding walks dimly echoed whisper-
ing words; the lawn was studded with dazzling
groups; on the terrace by the river a dainty multitude
beheld those celebrated waters which furnish floun-
ders to Richmond and whitebait to Blackwall.

'Mrs. Coningsby shall decide,' said Lord Beau-
manoir.

Edith and Lady Theresa Lyle stood by a statue
that glittered in the sun, surrounded by a group of
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127

cavaliers; among them Lord Beaumanoir, Lord Mil-
ford, Lord Eugene de Vere. Her figure was not less
lithe and graceful since her marriage, a little more
voluptuous; her rich complexion, her radiant and
abounding hair, and her long grey eye, now melting
with pathos, and now twinkling with mockery, pre-
sented one of those faces of witchery which are be-
yond beauty.

'Mrs. Coningsby shall decide.'

'\t is the very thing,' said Edith, 'that Mrs. Con-
ingsby will never do. Decision destroys suspense,
and suspense is the charm of existence.'

'But suspense may be agony,' said Lord Eugene
de Vere, casting a glance that would read the inner-
most heart of Edith.

'And decision may be despair,' said Mrs. Con-
ingsby.

'But we agreed the other night that you were to
decide everything for us,' said Lord Beaumanoir; 'and
you consented.'

' I consented the other night, and I retract my
consent to-day; and I am consistent, for that is inde-
cision.'

'You are consistent in being charming,' said Lord
Eugene.

'Pleasing and original!' said Edith. 'By-the-bye,
when I consented that the melancholy Jaques should
be one of my aides-de-camp I expected him to main-
tain his reputation, not only for gloom but wit. I
think you had better go back to the forest. Lord Eu-
gene, and see if you cannot stumble upon a fool who
may drill you in repartee. How do you do, Lady
Riddles worth ?' and she bowed to two ladies who
seemed inclined to stop, but Edith added, 'I heard

128 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

great applications for you this moment on the ter-
race.'

'Indeed! ' exclaimed the ladies; and they moved on.

'When Lady Riddlesworth joins the conversation
it is like a stoppage in the streets. I invented a
piece of intelligence to clear the way, as you would
call out Fire! or The queen is coming! There used
to be things called vers de socieU, which were not
poetry; and I do not see why there should not be
social illusions which are not fibs.'

M entirely agree with you,' said Lord Milford;
'and I move that we practise them on a large scale.'

' Like the verses, they might make life more light,'
said Lady Theresa.

'We are surrounded by illusions,' said Lord Eugene,
in a melancholy tone.

'And shams of all descriptions,' said Edith; 'the
greatest, a man who pretends he has a broken heart
when all the time he is full of fun.'

'There are a great many men who have broken
hearts,' said Lord Beaumanoir, smiling sorrowfully.

'Cracked heads are much commoner,' said Edith,
' you may rely upon it. The only man I really know
with a broken heart is Lord Fitz-Booby. I do think
that paying Mount-Dullard's debts has broken his
heart. He takes on so; 'tis piteous. "My dear Mrs.
Coningsby," he said to me last night, "only think
what that young man might have been; he might
have been a lord of the treasury in '35; why, if he
had had nothing more in '41, why, there's a loss of
between four and five thousand pounds; but with my
claims — Sir Robert, having thrown the father over,
was bound on his own principle to provide for the
son — he might have got something better; and now

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129

he comes to me with his debts, and his reason for
paying his debts, too, Mrs. Coningsby, because he is
going to be married; to be married to a woman who
has not a shilling. Why, if he had been in office,
and only got 1,300/. a year, and married a woman
with only another 1,500/., he would have had 3,000/.
a year, Mrs. Coningsby; and now he has nothing of
his own except some debts, which he wants me to
pay, and settle 3,000/. a year on him besides." '
They all laughed.

*Ah!' said Mrs. Coningsby, with a resemblance
which made all start, 'you should have heard it with
the Fitz-Booby voice.'

The character of a woman rapidly develops after
marriage, and sometimes seems to change, when in
fact it is only complete. Hitherto we have known
Edith only in her girlhood, bred up in a life of great
simplicity, and under the influence of a sweet fancy,
or an absorbing passion. Coningsby had been a hero
to her before they met, the hero of nursery hours and
nursery tales. Experience had not disturbed those
dreams. From the moment they encountered each
other at Millbank, he assumed that place in her heart
which he had long occupied in her imagination; and,
after their second meeting at Paris, her existence was
merged in love. All the crosses and vexations of
their early affection only rendered this state of being
on her part more profound and engrossing.

But though Edith was a most happy wife, and
blessed with two children worthy of their parents,
love exercises quite a different influence upon a
woman when she has married, and especially when
she has assumed a social position which deprives life
of all its real cares. Under any circumstances, that

I30 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

suspense, which, with all its occasional agony, is the
great spring of excitement, is over; but, generally
speaking, it will be found, notwithstanding the
proverb, that with persons of a noble nature, the
straitened fortunes which they share together, and
manage, and mitigate by mutual forbearance, are more
conducive to the sustainment of a high-toned and
romantic passion, than a luxurious prosperity.

The wife of a man of Hmited fortune, who, by
contrivance, by the concealed sacrifice of some ne-
cessity of her own, supplies him with some slight
enjoyment which he has never asked, but which she
fancies he may have sighed for, experiences, without
doubt, a degree of pleasure far more ravishing than
the patrician dame who stops her barouche at Storr
and Mortimer's, and out of her pin-money buys a
trinket for the husband whom she loves, and which
he finds, perhaps, on his dressing-table, on the anni-
versary of their wedding-day. That's pretty too and
touching, and should be encouraged; but the other
thrills, and ends in an embrace that is still poetry.

The Coningsbys shortly after their marriage had
been called to the possession of a great fortune, for
which, in every sense, they were well adapted. But
a great fortune necessarily brings with it a great
change of habits. The claims of society proportion-
ately increase with your income. You live less for
yourselves. For a selfish man, merely looking to his
luxurious ease. Lord Eskdale's idea of having ten
thousand a year, while the world suppose you have
only five, is the right thing. Coningsby, however,
looked to a great fortune as one of the means, rightly
employed, of obtaining great power. He looked also
to his wife to assist him in this enterprise.

TANCRED

Edith, from a native impulse, as well as from love
for him, responded to his wish. When they were
in the country, Hellingsley was a perpetual stream
and scene of splendid hospitality; there the flower of
London society mingled with all the aristocracy of
the county. Leander was often retained specially,
like a Wilde or a Kelly, to renovate the genius of
the habitual chief: not of the circuit, but the kitchen.
A noble mansion in Park Lane received them the
moment Parliament assembled. Coningsby was then
immersed in affairs, and counted entirely on Edith to
cherish those social influences which in a public
career are not less important than political ones. The
whole weight of the management of society rested on
her. She had to cultivate his alliances, keep together
his friends, arrange his dinner-parties, regulate his en-
gagements. What time for romantic love? They
were never an hour alone. Yet they loved not less;
but love had taken the character of enjoyment instead
of a wild bewitchment; and life had become an airy
bustle, instead of a storm, an agony, a hurricane of
the heart.

In this change in the disposition, not in the de-
gree, of their affection, for there was the same amount
of sweet solicitude, only it was duly apportioned to
everything that interested them, instead of being ex-
clusively devoted to each other, the character of Edith,
which had been swallowed up by the absorbing pas-
sion, rapidly developed itself amid the social circum-
stances. She was endued with great vivacity, a san-
guine and rather saucy spirit, with considerable talents,
and a large share of feminine vanity: that divine gift
which makes woman charming. Entirely sympathis-
ing with her husband, labouring with zeal to advance

132 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

his views, and living perpetually in the world, all these
qualities came to light. During her first season she
had been very quiet, not less observant, making her-
self mistress of the ground. It was prepared for her
next campaign. When she evinced a disposition to
take a lead, although found faultless the first year, it
was suddenly remembered that she was a manufac-
turer's daughter; and she was once described by a
great lady as *that person whom Mr. Coningsby had
married, when Lord Monmouth cut him off with a
shilling.'

But Edith had anticipated these difficulties, and was
not to be daunted. Proud of her husband, confident
in herself, supported by a great establishment, and
having many friends, she determined to exchange
salutes with these social sharp-shooters, who are
scarcely as courageous as they are arrogant. It was
discovered that Mrs. Coningsby could be as malicious
as her assailants, and far more epigrammatic. She
could describe in a sentence and personify in a phrase.
The mot was circulated, the nom de nique repeated.
Surrounded by a brilliant band of youth and wit, even
her powers of mimickry were revealed to the initiated.
More than one social tyrant, whom all disliked, but
whom none had ventured to resist, was made ridicu-
lous. Flushed by success and stimulated by admira-
tion, Edith flattered herself that she was assisting her
husband while she was gratifying her vanity. Her
adversaries soon vanished, but the powers that had
vanquished them were too choice to be forgotten or
neglected. The tone of raillery she had assumed for
the moment, and extended, in self-defence, to per-
sons, was adopted as a habit, and infused itself over
affairs in general.

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133

Mrs. Coningsby was the fashion; she was a wit as
well as a beauty; a fascinating droll; dazzling and
bewitching, the idol of every youth. Eugene de Vere
was roused from his premature exhaustion, and at last
found excitement again. He threw himself at her
feet; she laughed at him. He asked leave to follow
her footsteps; she consented. He was only one of a
band of slaves. Lord Beaumanoir, still a bachelor, al-
ways hovered about her, feeding on her laughing
words with a mild melancholy, and sometimes bandy-
ing repartee with a kind of tender and stately despair.
His sister, Lady Theresa Lyle, was Edith's great
friend. Their dispositions had some resemblance.
Marriage had developed in both of them a froHc grace.
They hunted in couple; and their sport was brilliant.
Many things may be said by a strong female alliance,
that would assume quite a different character were
they even to fall from the lips of an Aspasia to a cir-
cle of male votaries; so much depends upon the scene
and the characters, the mode and the manner.

The good-natured world would sometimes pause
in its amusement, and, after dwelling with statistical
accuracy on the number of times Mrs. Coningsby had
danced the polka, on the extraordinary things she
said to Lord Eugene de Vere, and the odd things she
and Lady Theresa Lyle were perpetually doing, would
wonder, with a face and voice of innocence, 'how
Mr. Coningsby Hked all this.?' There is no doubt
what was the anticipation by the good-natured world
of Mr. Coningsby's feelings. But they were quite
mistaken. There was nothing that Mr. Coningsby
liked more. He wished his wife to become a social
power; and he wished his wife to be amused. He
saw that, with the surface of a life of levity, she al-

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

ready exercised considerable influence, especially over
the young; and independently of such circumstances
and considerations, he was delighted to have a wife
who was not afraid of going into society by herself;
not one whom he was sure to find at home when he
returned from the House of Commons, not reproach-
ing him exactly for her social sacrifices, but looking a
victim, and thinking that she retained her hus-
band's heart by being a mope. Instead of that Con-
ingsby wanted to be amused when he came home,
and more than that, he wanted to be instructed in the
finest learning in the world.

As some men keep up their Greek by reading
every day a chapter in the New Testament, so Con-
ingsby kept up his knowledge of the world, by al-
ways, once at least in the four-and-twenty hours,
having a delightful conversation with his wife. The
processes were equally orthodox. Exempted from the
tax of entering general society, free to follow his own
pursuits, and to live in that political world which
alone interested him, there was not an anecdote, a
trait, a good thing said, or a bad thing done, which
did not reach him by a fine critic and a lively nar-
rator. He was always behind those social scenes
which, after all, regulate the political performers,
knew the springs of the whole machinery, the chang-
ings and the shiftings, the fiery cars and golden
chariots which men might mount, and the trap-doors
down which men might fall.

But the Marquess of Montacute is making his rev-
erence to Mrs. Guy Flouncey.

There was not at this moment a human being
whom that lady was more glad to see at her d^jeHner;
but she did not show it in the least. Her self-pos-

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135

session, indeed, was the finest work of art of the
day, and ought to be exhibited at the Adelaide Gal-
lery. Like all mechanical inventions of a high class,
it had been brought to perfection very gradually, and
after many experiments. A variety of combinations,
and an almost infinite number of trials, must have
been expended before the too-startling laugh of Con-
ingsby Castle could have subsided into the haughty
suavity of that sunny glance, which was not familiar
enough for a smile, nor foolish enough for a simper.
As for the ratthng vein which distinguished her in
the days of our first acquaintance, that had long
ceased. Mrs. Guy Flouncey now seemed to share
the prevalent passion for genuine Saxon, and used
only monosyllables; while Fine-ear himself would
have been sometimes at fault had he attempted to
give a name to her delicate breathings. In short, Mrs.
Guy Flouncey never did or said anything but in 'the
best taste.' It may, however, be a question, whether
she ever would have captivated Lord Monmouth, and
those who like a little nature and fun, if she had
made her first advances in this style. But that showed
the greatness of the woman. Then she was ready
for anything for promotion. That was the age of
forlorn hopes; but now she was a general of division,
and had assumed a becoming carriage.

This was the first dejeuner at which Tancred had
been present. He rather liked it. The scene, lawns
and groves and a glancing river, the air, the music,
our beautiful countrywomen, who, with their bril-
liant complexions and bright bonnets, do not shrink
from the daylight, these are circumstances which,
combined with youth and health, make a morning
festival, say what they like, particularly for the first

15 B. D.— 22

136 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

time, very agreeable, even if one be dreaming of Jeru-
salem. Strange power of the world, that the mo-
ment we enter it, our great conceptions dwarf! In
youth it is quick sympathy that degrades them; more
advanced, it is the sense of the ridiculous. But per-
haps these reveries of solitude may not be really
great conceptions; perhaps they are only exaggera-
tions; vague, indefinite, shadowy, formed on no
sound principles, founded on no assured basis.

Why should Tancred go to Jerusalem? What
does it signify to him whether there be religious
truth or political justice? He has youth, beauty, rank,
wealth, power, and all in excess. He has a mind that
can comprehend their importance and appreciate their
advantages. What more does he require? Unreason-
able boy! And if he reach Jerusalem, why should
he find rehgious truth and political justice there? He
can read of it in the travelling books, written by
young gentlemen, with the best letters of introduc-
tion to all the consuls. They tell us what it is, a
third-rate city in a stony wilderness. Will the Provi-
dence of fashion prevent this great folly about to be
perpetrated by one born to be fashion's most bril-
liant subject? A folly, too, which may end in a
catastrophe? His parents, indeed, have appealed in
vain; but the sneer of the world will do more than
the suppHcation of the father. A mother's tear may
be disregarded, but the sigh of a mistress has
changed the most obdurate. We shall see. At
present Lady Constance Rawleigh expresses her
pleasure at Tancred's arrival, and his heart beats a
little.

CHAPTER XV.

Disenchantment.

HEY are talking about it,' said Lord
Eskdale to the duchess, as she
looked up to him with an ex-
\ pression of the deepest interest.
/ 'He asked St. Patrick to intro-
duce him to her at Deloraine House,

danced with her, was with her the whole evening,
went to the breakfast on Saturday to meet her, in-
stead of going to Blackwall to see a yacht he was
after.'

'If it were only Katherine,' said the duchess, '1
should be quite happy.'

'Don't be uneasy,' said Lord Eskdale; 'there will
be plenty of Katherines and Constances, too, before
he finishes. The affair is not much, but it shows, as
I foretold, that, the moment he found something
more amusing, his taste for yachting would pass off.'

'You are right, you always are.'

What really was this affair, which Lord Eskdale
held lightly ? With a character like Tancred, every-
thing may become important. Profound and yet
simple, deep in self-knowledge yet inexperienced, his
reserve, which would screen him from a thousand

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138 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

dangers, was just the quality which would insure his
thraldom by the individual who could once effectually
melt the icy barrier and reach the central heat. At
this moment of his life, with all the repose, and
sometimes even the high ceremony, on the surface,
he was a being formed for high-reaching exploits,
ready to dare everything and reckless of all conse-
quences, if he proposed to himself an object which
he believed to be just and great. This temper of
mind would, in all things, have made him act with
that rapidity, which is rashness with the weak, and
decision with the strong. The influence of woman
on him was novel. It was a disturbing influence, on
which he had never counted in those dreams and
visions in which there had figured more heroes than
heroines. In the imaginary interviews in which he
had disciplined his solitary mind, his antagonists had
been statesmen, prelates, sages, and senators, with
whom he struggled and whom he vanquished.

He was not unequal in practice to his dreams.
His shyness would have vanished in an instant before
a great occasion; he could have addressed a public
assembly; he was capable of transacting important af-
fairs. These were all situations and contingencies
which he had foreseen, and which for him were not
strange, for he had become acquainted with them in
his reveries. But suddenly he was arrested by an in-
fluence for which he was unprepared; a precious
stone made him stumble who was to have scaled the
Alps. Why should the voice, the glance, of another
agitate his heart ? The cherubim of his heroic thoughts
not only deserted him, but he was left without the
guardian angel of his shyness. He melted, and the
iceberg might degenerate into a puddle.

TANCRED

139

Lord Eskdale drew his conclusions like a clever
man of the world, and in general he would have
been right; but a person like Tancred was in much
greater danger of being captured than a common-
place youth entering life with second-hand experience,
and living among those who ruled his opinions by
their sneers and sarcasms. A mahcious tale by a
spiteful woman, the chance ribaldry of a club-room
window, have often been the impure agencies which
have saved many a youth from committing a great
folly; but Tancred was beyond all these influences.
If they had been brought to bear on him, they would
rather have precipitated the catastrophe. His imagina-
tion would have immediately been summoned to the
rescue of his offended pride; he would have invested the
object of his regard with supernatural quaUties, and
consoled her for the impertinence of society by his
devotion.

Lady Constance was clever; she talked like a mar-
ried woman, was critical, yet easy; and having gua-
noed her mind by reading French novels, had a
variety of conclusions on all social topics, which she
threw forth with unfaltering promptness, and with
the well-arranged air of an impromptu. These were
all new to Tancred, and starthng. He was attracted
by the brilliancy, though he often regretted the tone,
which he ascribed to the surrounding corruption from
which he intended to escape, and almost wished to
save her at the same time. Sometimes Tancred
looked unusually serious; but at last his rare and bril-
liant smile beamed upon one who really admired him,
was captivated by his intellect, his freshness, his differ-
ence from all around, his pensive beauty and his
grave innocence. Lady Constance was free from

I40 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

affectation; she was frank and natural; she did not
conceal the pleasure she had in his society; she
conducted herself with that dignified facility, be-
coming a young lady who had already refused the
hands of two future earls, and of the heir of the
Clan-Alpins.

A short time after the MjeHner at Craven Cottage,
Lord Montacute called on Lady Charmouth. She was
at home, and received him with great cordiality,
looking up from her frame of worsted work with a
benign maternal expression; while Lady Constance,
who was writing an urgent reply to a note that had
just arrived, said rapidly some agreeable words of
welcome, and continued her task. Tancred seated
himself by the mother, made an essay in that small
talk in which he was by no means practised, but
Lady Charmouth helped him on without seeming to
do so. The note was at length dispatched, Tancred
of course still remaining at the mother's side, and Lady
Constance too distant for his wishes. He had noth-
ing to say to Lady Charmouth; he began to feel that
the pleasure of feminine society consisted in talking
alone to her daughter.

While he was meditating a retreat, and yet had
hardly courage to rise and walk alone down a large
long room, a new guest was announced. Tancred
rose, and murmured good-morning; and yet, some-
how or other, instead of quitting the apartment, he
went and seated himself by Lady Constance. It really
was as much the impulse of shyness, which sought a
nook of refuge, as any other feeling that actuated
him; but Lady Constance seemed pleased, and said in
a low voice and in a careless tone, "Tis Lady Bran-
cepeth; do you know her? Mamma's great friend;'

TANCRED

which meant, you need give yourself no trouble to
talk to any one but myself.

After making herself very agreeable, Lady Con-
stance took up a book which was at hand, and said,
'Do you know this?' And Tancred, opening a vol-
ume which he had never seen, and then turning to
its titlepage, found it was 'The Revelations of Chaos,'
a startling work just published, and of which a
rumour had reached him.

'No,' he replied; 'I have not seen it.'

'I will lend it you if you like: it is one of those
books one must read. It explains everything, and is
written in a very agreeable style.'

'It explains everything!' said Tancred; 'it must,
indeed, be a very remarkable book!'

'I think it will just suit you,' said Lady Constance.
'Do you know, I thought so several times while I
was reading it.'

'To judge from the title, the subject is rather ob-
scure,' said Tancred.

'No longer so,' said Lady Constance. 'It is treated
scientifically; everything is explained by geology and
astronomy, and in that way. It shows you exactly
how a star is formed; nothing can be so pretty! A
cluster of vapour, the cream of the Milky Way, a sort
of celestial cheese, churned into light, you must read
it, 'tis charming.'

'Nobody ever saw a star formed,' said Tancred.

'Perhaps not. You must read the "Revelations;"
it is all explained. But what is most interesting, is
the way in which man has been developed. You know,
all is development. The principle is perpetually go-
ing on. First, there was nothing, then there was
something; then, I forget the next, I think there were

142 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

shells, then fishes; then we came, let me see, did we
come next? Never mind that; we came at last. And
the next change there will be something very su-
perior to us, something with wings. Ah! that's it:
we were fishes, and I believe we shall be crows.
But you must read it.'

* I do not believe I ever was a fish,' said Tancred.

'Oh! but it is all proved; you must not argue on
my rapid sketch; read the book. It is impossible to
contradict anything in it. You understand, it is all
science; it is not like those books in which one says
one thing and another the contrary, and both may be
wrong. Everything is proved: by geology, you know.
You see exactly how everything is made; how many
worlds there have been; how long they lasted; what
went before, what comes next. We are a link in the
chain, as inferior animals were that preceded us: we
in turn shall be inferior; all that will remain of us
will be some relics in a new red sandstone. This is
development. We had fins; we may have wings.'

Tancred grew silent and thoughtful; Lady Bran-
cepeth moved, and he rose at the same time. Lady
Charmouth looked as if it were by no means neces-
sary for him to depart, but he bowed very low, and
then bade farewell to Lady Constance, who said, ' We
shall meet to-night.'

*I was a fish, and I shall be a crow,' said Tan-
cred to himself, when the hall door closed on him.
'What a spiritual mistress! And yesterday, for a mo-
ment, I almost dreamed of kneeling with her at the
Holy Sepulchre ! I must get out of this city as quickly
as possible; I cannot cope with its corruption. The
acquaintance, however, has been of use to me, for I
think I have got a yacht by it. I believe it was

TANCRED

143

providential, and a trial. I will go home and write
instantly to Fitz-Heron, and accept his offer. One
hundred and eighty tons: it will do; it must.'

At this moment he met Lord Eskdale, who had
observed Tancred from the end of Grosvenor Square,
on the steps of Lord Charmouth's door. This cir-
cumstance ill prepared Lord Eskdale for Tancred's
salutation.

' My dear lord, you are just the person I wanted
to meet. You promised to recommend me a servant
who had travelled in the East.'

' Well, are you in a hurry ? * said Lord Eskdale,
gaining time, and pumping.

*I should like to get off as soon as practicable.'

'Humph!' said Lord Eskdale. 'Have you got a
yacht.?'

*I have.'

*0h! So you want a servant?' he added, after a
moment's pause.

* I mentioned that, because you were so kind as to
say you could help me in that respect.'

*Ah! I did,' said Lord Eskdale, thoughtfully.

*But I want a great many things,' continued Tan-
cred. 'I must make arrangements about money; I
suppose I must get some letters; in fact, I want gen-
erally your advice.'

'What are you going to do about the colonel and
the rest?'

'I have promised my father to take them,' said
Tancred, 'though I feel they will only embarrass
me. They have engaged to be ready at a week's
notice; I shall write to them immediately. If they
do not fulfil their engagement, I am absolved from
mine.'

144

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'So you have got a yacht, eh?' said Lord Eskdale.
*I suppose you have bought the Basilisk?'
'Exactly.'

'She wants a good deal doing to her/

'Something, but chiefly for show, which I do not
care about; but I mean to get away, and refit, if
necessary, at Gibraltar. I must go.'

'Well, if you must go,' said his lordship, and then
he added, 'and in such a hurry; let me see. You
want a firstrate managing man, used to the East, and
letters, and money, and advice. Hem! You don't
know Sidonia?'

'Not at all.'

' He is the man to get hold of, but that is so diffi-
cult now. He never goes anywhere. Let me see,
this is Monday; to-morrow is post-day, and I dine
with him alone in the City. Well, you shall hear
from me on Wednesday morning early, about every-
thing; but I would not write to the colonel and his
friends just yet.'

CHAPTER XVI.

Tancred Rescues a Lady in
Distress.

HAT is most striking in London is
its vastness. It is the illimitable
feeling that gives it a special char-
acter. London is not grand. It
possesses only one of the quaUfica-
tions of a grand city, size; but it
wants the equally important one, beauty. It is the union
of these two qualities that produced the grand cities,
the Romes, the Babylons, the hundred portals of the
Pharaohs; multitudes and magnificence; the millions
influenced by art. Grand cities are unknown since
the beautiful has ceased to be the principle of inven-
tion. Paris, of modern capitals, has aspired to this
character; but if Paris be a beautiful city, it certainly
is not a grand one; its population is too limited, and,
from the nature of their dwellings, they cover a com-
paratively small space. Constantinople is picturesque;
nature has furnished a sublime site, but it has little
architectural splendour, and you reach the environs
with a fatal facility. London overpowers us with its
vastness.

Place a Forum or an Acropolis in its centre, and
the effect of the metropolitan mass, which now has

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146 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

neither head nor heart, instead of being stupefying,
would be ennobling. Nothing more completely repre-
sents a nation than a public building. A member of
Parliament only represents, at the most, the united
constituencies: but the Palace of the Sovereign, a
National Gallery, or a Museum baptised with the
name of the country, these are monuments to which
all should be able to look up with pride, and which
should exercise an elevating influence upon the spirit
of the humblest. What is their influence in London ?
Let us not criticise what all condemn. But how
remedy the evil? What is wanted in architecture, as
in so many things, is a man. Shall we find a refuge
in a Committee of Taste ? Escape from the mediocrity
of one to the mediocrity of many ? We only multiply
our feebleness, and aggravate our deficiencies. But
one suggestion might be made. No profession in
England has done its duty until it has furnished its
victim. The pure administration of justice dates from
the deposition of Macclesfield. Even our boasted navy
never achieved a great victory until we shot an ad-
miral. Suppose an architect were hanged? Terror
has its inspiration as well as competition.

Though London is vast, it is very monotonous.
All those new districts that have sprung up within
the last half-century, the creatures of our commercial
and colonial wealth, it is impossible to conceive any-
thing more tame, more insipid, more uniform. Pan-
eras is like Mary-le-bone, Mary-le-bone is like
Paddington; all the streets resemble each other, you
must read the names of the squares before you ven-
ture to knock at a door. This amount of building
capital ought to have produced a great city. What
an opportunity for architecture suddenly summoned

TANCRED

147

to furnish habitations for a population equal to that
of the city of Bruxelles, and a population, too, of
great wealth. Mary-le-bone alone ought to have pro-
duced a revolution in our domestic architecture. It
did nothing. It was built by Act of Parliament. Par-
liament prescribed even a facade. It is Parliament to
whom we are indebted for your Gloucester Places,
and Baker Streets, and Harley Streets, and Wimpole
Streets, and all those flat, dull, spiritless streets, re-
sembling each other like a large family of plain chil-
dren, with Portland Place and Portman Square for
their respectable parents. The influence of our Parlia-
mentary Government upon the fine arts is a subject
worth pursuing. The power that produced Baker
Street as a model for street architecture in its cele-
brated Building Act, is the power that prevented
Whitehall from being completed, and which sold to
foreigners all the pictures which the King of England
had collected to civilise his people.

In our own days we have witnessed the rapid
creation of a new metropolitan quarter, built solely
for the aristocracy by an aristocrat. The Belgrave dis-
trict is as monotonous as Mary-Ie-bone; and is so
contrived as to be at the same time insipid and tawdry.

Where London becomes more interesting is Char-
ing Cross. Looking to Northumberland House, and
turning your back upon Trafalgar Square, the Strand
is perhaps the finest street in Europe, blending the
architecture of many periods; and its river ways are
a peculiar feature and rich with associations. Fleet
Street, with its Temple, is not unworthy of being
contiguous to the Strand. The fire of London has
deprived us of the delight of a real old quarter of the
city; but some bits remain, and everywhere there is

148 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

a stirring multitude, and a great crush and crash of
carts and wains. The Inns of Court, and the quarters
in the vicinity of the port, Thames Street, Tower
Hill, Billingsgate, Wapping, Rotherhithe, are the best
parts of London; they are full of character: the build-
ings bear a nearer relation to what the people are
doing than in the more polished quarters.

The old merchants of the times of the first Georges
were a fine race. They knew their position, and
built up to it. While the territorial aristocracy, pull-
ing down their family hotels, were raising vulgar
streets and squares upon their site, and occupying
themselves one of the new tenements, the old mer-
chants filled the straggling lanes, which connected
the Royal Exchange with the port of London, with
mansions which, if not exactly equal to the palaces
of stately Venice, might at least vie with many of the
hotels of old Paris. Some of these, though the great
majority have been broken up into chambers and
counting-houses, still remain intact.

In a long, dark, narrow, crooked street, which is
still called a lane, and which runs from the south
side of the street of the Lombards towards the river,
there is one of these old houses of a century past,
and which, both in its original design and present
condition, is a noble specimen of its order. A pair
of massy iron gates, of elaborate workmanship, sepa-
rate the street from its spacious and airy court-yard,
which is formed on either side by a wing of the
mansion, itself a building of deep red brick, with a
pediment, and pilasters, and copings of stone. A
flight of steps leads to the lofty and central doorway;
in the middle of the court there is a garden plot, in-
closing a fountain, and a fine plane tree.

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149

The stillness, doubly effective after the tumult just
quitted, the lulling voice of the water, the soothing
aspect of the quivering foliage, the noble building,
and the cool and capacious quadrangle, the aspect
even of those who enter, and frequently enter, the
precinct, and who are generally young men, gliding
in and out, earnest and full of thought, all contribute
to give to this locality something of the classic repose
of a college, instead of a place agitated with the most
urgent interests of the current hour; a place that deals
with the fortunes of kings and empires, and regulates
the most important affairs of nations, for it is the
counting-house in the greatest of modern cities of the
most celebrated of modern financiers.

It was the visit of Tancred to the City, on the
Wednesday morning after he had met Lord Eskdale,
that occasions me to touch on some of the character-
istics of our capital. It was the first time that Tan-
cred had ever been in the City proper, and it greatly
interested him. His visit was prompted by receiving,
early on Wednesday morning, the following letter:

*Dear Tancred: I saw Sidonia yesterday, and
spoke to him of what you want. He is much oc-
cupied just now, as his uncle, who attended to affairs
here, is dead, and, until he can import another uncle
or cousin, he must steer the ship, as times are critical.
But he bade me say you might call upon him in the
City to-day, at two o'clock. He lives in Sequin Court,
near the Bank. You will have no difficulty in finding
it. I recommend you to go, as he is the sort of man
who will really understand what you mean, which
neither your father nor myself do exactly; and, be-
sides, he is a person to know.

I50 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

* I enclose a line which you will send in, that there
may be no mistake. I should tell you, as you are
very fresh, that he is of the Hebrew race; so don't
go on too much about the Holy Sepulchre.

'Yours faithfully,

' ESKDALE.

'Spring Gardens, Wednesday morning.'

It is just where the street is most crowded, where
it narrows, and losing the name of Cheapside, takes
that of the Poultry, that the last of a series of stop-
pages occurred; a stoppage which, at the end of ten
minutes, lost its inert character of mere obstruction,
and developed into the livelier qualities of the row.
There were oaths, contradictions, menaces: 'No, you
sha'n't; Yes, I will; No, 1 didn't; Yes, you did; No,
you haven't; Yes, I have;' the lashing of a whip, the
interference of a policeman, a crash, a scream. Tan-
cred looked out of the window of his brougham. He
saw a chariot in distress, a chariot such as would have
become an Ondine by the waters of the Serpentine,
and the very last sort of equipage that you could ex-
pect to see smashed in the Poultry. It was really
breaking a butterfly upon a wheel to crush its deli-
cate springs, and crack its dark brown panels, soil its
dainty hammer-cloth, and endanger the lives of its
young coachman in a flaxen wig, and its two tall
footmen in short coats, worthy of Cinderella.

The scream, too, came from a fair owner, who
was surrounded by clamorous carmen and city mar-
shals, and who, in an unknown land, was afraid she
might be put in a city compter, because the people
in the city had destroyed her beautiful chariot. Tan-
cred let himself out of his brougham, and not with-

TANCRED

out difficulty contrived, through the narrow and
crowded passage formed by the two lines, to reach
the chariot, which was coming the contrary way to
him. Some ruthless officials were persuading a beau-
tiful woman to leave her carriage, the wheel of which
was broken. * But where am I to go?' she exclaimed.
*I cannot walk. I will not leave my carriage until
you bring me some conveyance. You ought to pun-
ish these people, who have quite ruined my chariot'

'They say it was your coachman's fault; we have
nothing to do with that; besides, you know who
they are. Their employers' name is on the cart,
Brown, Bugsby, and Co., Limehouse. You can have
your redress against Brown, Bugsby, and Co., Lime-
house, if your coachman is not in fault; but you can-
not stop up the way, and you had better get out, and
let the carriage be removed to the Steel-yard.'

'What am 1 to do?' exclaimed the lady with a
tearful eye and agitated face.

*I have a carriage at hand,' said Tancred, who at
this moment reached her, 'and it is quite at your
service.'

The lady cast her beautiful eyes, with an expres-
sion of astonishment she could not conceal, at the
distinguished youth who thus suddenly appeared in
the midst of insolent carmen, brutal policemen, and all
the cynical amateurs of a mob. Public opinion in the
Poultry was against her; her coachman's wig had ex-
cited derision; the footmen had given themselves airs;
there was a strong feeling against the shortcoats. As
for the lady, though at first awed by her beauty and
magnificence, they rebelled against the authority of
her manner. Besides, she was not alone. There was
a gentleman with her, who wore moustaches, and

15 B, D.— 23

152 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

had taken a part in the proceedings at first, by address-
ing the carmen in French. This was too much, and
the mob declared he was Don Carlos.

'You are too good,' said the lady, with a sweet
expression.

Tancred opened the door of the chariot, the po-
licemen pulled down the steps, the servants were
told to do the best they could with the wrecked
equipage; in a second the lady and her companion
were in Tancred's brougham, who, desiring his serv-
ants to obey all their orders, disappeared, for the
stoppage at this moment began to move, and there
was no time for bandying compliments.

He had gained the pavement, and had made his
way as far as the Mansion House, when, finding a
group of public buildings, he thought it prudent to
inquire which was the Bank.

*^^That is the Bank,' said a good-natured man, in a
bustle, but taken by Tancred's unusual appearance.
'What do you want? I am going there.'

M do not want exactly the Bank,' replied Tancred,
'but a place somewhere near it. Do you happen to
know, sir, a place called Sequin Court?'

'I should think I did,' said the man, smiling. 'So
you are going to Sidonia's ? '

V

FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING BY HERMAN ROUNTREE

Tancred opened the door of the chariot.

(See page 152.)

Cbpyr u/Ju r-iiJ4; t^^M. Wdlta-jliinri^y_

CHAPTER XVII.

The Wizard of Fortune.

ANCRED entered Sequin Court; a
chariot with a foreign coronet was
at the foot of the great steps which
he ascended. He was received
by a fat hall porter, who would
not have disgraced his father's es-
tablishment, and who, rising with lazy insolence from
his hooded chair, when he observed that Tancred did
not advance, asked the new comer what he wanted.
'I want Monsieur de Sidonia.'
'Can't see him now; he is engaged.'
'I have a note for him.'

'Very well, give it me; it will be sent in. You
can sit here.' And the porter opened the door of a
waiting-room, which Tancred declined to enter. ' I
will wait here, thank you,' said Tancred, and he
looked round at the old oak hall, on the walls of
which were hung several portraits, and from which
ascended one of those noble staircases never found in
a modern London mansion. At the end of the hall,
on a slab of porphyry, was a marble bust, with this
inscription on it, 'Fundator.' It was the first Si-
donia, by Chantrey.

(153)

154 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

.'I will wait here, thank you,' said Tancred, look-
ing round; and then, with some hesitation, he added,
'I have an appointment here at two o'clock.'

As he spoke, that hour sounded from the belfry of
an old city church that was at hand, and then was
taken up by the chimes of a large German clock in
the hall.

Mt may be,' said the porter, 'but I can't disturb
master now; the Spanish ambassador is with him,
and others are waiting. When he is gone, a clerk
will take in your letter with some others that are
here.'

At this moment, and while Tancred remained in
the hall, various persons entered, and, without no-
ticing the porter, pursued their way across the apart-
ment.

'And where are those persons going?' inquired
Tancred.

The porter looked at the enquirer with a blended
gaze of curiosity and contempt, and then negligently
answered him without looking in Tancred's face, and
while he was brushing up the hearth, 'Some are go-
ing to the counting-house, and some are going to
the Bank, I should think.'

'I wonder if our hall porter is such an infernal
bully as Monsieur de Sidonia's!' thought Tancred.

There was a stir. 'The ambassador is coming
out,' said the hall porter; 'you must not stand in
the way/

The well-trained ear of this guardian of the gate
was conversant with every combination of sound
which the apartments of Sequin Court could produce.
Close as the doors might be shut, you could not rise
from your chair without his being aware of it; and

TANCRED 155

in the present instance he was correct. A door at
the end of the hall opened, and the Spanish minister
came forth.

'Stand aside,' said the hall porter to Tancred;
and, summoning the servants without, he ushered his
excellency with some reverence to his carriage.

*Now your letter will go in with the others,' he
said to Tancred, whom for a few moments he left
alone, and then returned, taking no notice of our
young friend, but, depositing his bulky form in his
hooded chair, he resumed the city article of the
Times.

The letter ran thus:

'Dear Sidonia: This will be given you by my
cousin Montacute, of whom I spoke to you yester-
day. He wants to go to Jerusalem, which very
much perplexes his family, for he is an only child.
I don't suppose the danger is what they imagine.
But still there is nothing like experience, and there
is no one who knows so much of these things as
yourself. I have promised his father and mother,
very innocent people, whom of all my relatives, I
most affect, to do what I can for him. If, therefore,
you can aid Montacute, you will really serve me.
He seems to have character, though 1 can't well
make him out. I fear I indulged in the hock yester-
day, for I feel a twinge. Yours faithfully,

' ESKDALE.

'Wednesday morning.'

The hall clock had commenced the quarter chimes,
when a young man, fair and intelligent, and wearing
spectacles, came into the hall, and, opening the door

156 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

of the waiting-room, looked as if he expected to
find some one there; then, turning to the porter, he
said, * Where is Lord Montacute ? '

The porter rose from his hooded chair, and put
down the newspaper, but Tancred had advanced
when he heard his name, and bowed, and followed
the young man in spectacles, who invited Tancred to
accompany him.

Tancred was ushered into a spacious and rather
long apartment, panelled with old oak up to the
white coved ceihng, which was richly ornamented.
Four windows looked upon the fountain and the
plane tree. A portrait by Lawrence, evidently of the
same individual who had furnished the model to
Chantrey, was over the high, old-fashioned, but very
handsome marble mantel-piece. A Turkey carpet,
curtains of crimson damask, some large tables cov-
ered with papers, several easy chairs, against the
walls some iron cabinets, these were the furniture of
the room, at one corner of which was a glass door,
which led to a vista of apartments fitted up as count-
ing-houses, filled with clerks, and which, if expe-
dient, might be covered by a baize screen, which
was now unclosed.

A gentleman writing at a table rose as he came
in, and extending his hand said, as he pointed to a
seat, 'I am afraid I have made you come out at an
unusual hour.'

The young man in spectacles in the meanwhile re-
tired; Tancred had bowed and murmured his compli-
ments: and his host, drawing his chair a little from
the table, continued: *Lord Eskdale tells me that you
have some thoughts of going to Jerusalem.'

'I have for some time had that intention.'

TANCRED

157

* It is a pity that you did not set out earlier in
the year, and then you might have been there during
the Easter pilgrimage. It is a fine sight.'

'It is a pity,' said Tancred; *but to reach Jeru-
salem is with me an object of so much moment, that
I shall be content to find myself there at any time,
and under any circumstances.'

'It is no longer difficult to reach Jerusalem; the
real difficulty is the one experienced by the crusaders,
to know what to do when you have arrived there.'

'It is the land of inspiration,' said Tancred, slightly
blushing; 'and when I am there, I would humbly
pray that my course may be indicated to me.'

'And you think that no prayers, however humble,
would obtain for you that indication before your de-
parture ? '

'This is not the land of inspiration,' replied Tan-
cred, timidly.

'But you have your Church,' said Sidonia.

'Which I hold of divine institution, and which
should be under the immediate influence of the Holy
Spirit,' said Tancred, dropping his eyes, and colouring
still more as he found himself already trespassing on
that delicate province of theology which always fas-
cinated him, but which it had been intimated to
him by Lord Eskdale that he should avoid.

' Is it wanting to you, then, in this conjuncture ? '
inquired his companion.

M find its opinions conflicting, its decrees con-
tradictory, its conduct inconsistent,' replied Tancred.
' I have conferred with one who is esteemed its most
eminent prelate, and I have left him with a conviction
of what I had for some time suspected, that inspira-
tion is not only a divine but a local quality.'

158 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'You and I have some reason to believe so,' said
Sidonia. * I believe that God spoke to Moses on
Mount Horeb, and you believe that he was crucified,
in the person of Jesus, on Mount Calvary. Both
were, at least carnally, children of Israel: they spoke
Hebrew to the Hebrews. The prophets were only
Hebrews; the apostles were only Hebrews. The
churches of Asia, which have vanished, were founded
by a native Hebrew; and the church of Rome, which
says it shall last for ever, and which converted this
island to the faith of Moses and of Christ, vanquish-
ing the Druids, Jupiter Olympius, and Woden, who
had successively invaded it, was also founded by a
native Hebrew. Therefore, I say, your suspicion or
your conviction is, at least, not a fantastic one.'

Tancred listened to Sidonia as he spoke with great
interest, and with an earnest and now quite unem-
barrassed manner. The height of the argument had
immediately surmounted all his social reserve. His
intelligence responded to the great theme that had so
long occupied his musing hours; and the unexpected
character of a conversation which, as he had sup-
posed, would have mainly treated of letters of credit,
the more excited him.

'Then,' said Tancred, with animation, 'seeing
how things are, that I am born in an age and in a
country divided between infidelity on one side and
an anarchy of creeds on the other; with none compe-
tent to guide me, yet feeling that I must believe, for 1
hold that duty cannot exist without faith ; is it so wild
as some would think it, I would say is it unreasonable,
that I should wish to do that which, six centuries ago,
was done by my ancestor whose name I bear, and
that I should cross the seas, and ?' He hesitated.

TANCRED

159

*And visit the Holy Sepulchre,' said Sidonia.

'And visit the Holy Sepulchre,' said Tancred,
solemnly; 'for that, I confess, is my sovereign thought.'

'Well, the crusades were of vast advantage to
Europe,' said Sidonia, 'and renovated the spiritual
hold which Asia has always had upon the North. It
seems to wane at present, but it is only the decrease
that precedes the new development.'

*It must be so,' safd Tancred; 'for who can be-
lieve that a country once sanctified by the Divine
Presence can ever be as other lands ? Some celestial
quality, distinguishing it from all other climes, must
for ever linger about it. I would ask those moun-
tains, that were reached by angels, why they no
longer receive heavenly visitants. I would appeal to
that Comforter promised to man, on the sacred spot
on which the assurance of solace was made. I re-
quire a Comforter. I have appealed to the holy in-
fluence in vain in England. It has not visited me; I
know none here on whom it has descended. I am
induced, therefore, to believe that it is part of the di-
vine scheme that its influence should be local; that it
should be approached with reverence, not thought-
lessly and hurriedly, but with such difficulties and
such an interval of time as a pilgrimage to a spot
sanctified can alone secure.'

Sidonia listened to Tancred with deep attention.
Lord Montacute was seated opposite the windows, so
that there was a full light upon the play of the coun-
tenance, the expression of which Sidonia watched,
while his keen and far-reaching vision traced at the
same time the formation and development of the head
of his visitor. He recognised in this youth not a vain
and vague visionary, but a being in whom the facul-

i6o BENJAMIN DISRAELI

ties of reason and imagination were both of the high-
est class, and both equally developed. He observed
that he was of a nature passionately affectionate,
and that he was of a singular audacity. He perceived
that though, at this moment, Tancred was as igno-
rant of the world as a young monk, he possessed all
the latent qualities which in future would qualify him
to control society. When Tancred had finished speak-
ing, there was a pause of a few seconds, during
which Sidonia seemed lost in thought; then, looking up,
he said, * It appears to me, Lord Montacute, that what
you want is to penetrate the great Asian mystery.'

'You have touched my inmost thought,' said Tan-
cred, eagerly.

At this moment there entered the room, from the
glass door, the same young man who had ushered
Tancred into the apartment. He brought a letter to
Sidonia. Lord Montacute felt confused; his shyness
returned to him; he deplored the unfortunate inter-
ruption, but he felt he was in the way. He rose,
and began to say good-morning, when Sidonia, with-
out taking his eyes off the letter, saw him, and wav-
ing his hand, stopped him, saying, M settled with
Lord Eskdale that you were not to go away if any-
thing occurred which required my momentary atten-
tion. So pray sit down, unless you have engagements.'
And Tancred again seated himself.

'Write,' continued Sidonia to the clerk, 'that my
letters are twelve hours later than the despatches, and
that the City continued quite tranquil. Let the ex-
tract from the Berlin letter be left at the same time
at the Treasury. The last bulletin ? '

' Consols drooping at half-past two; all the foreign
funds lower; shares very active.'

TANCRED

i6i

They were once more alone.
'When do you propose going?'
M hope in a week.'
'Alone ?'

*I fear I shall have many attendants.'

'That is a pity. Well, when you arrive at Jeru-
salem, you will naturally go to the convent of Terra
Santa. You will make there the acquaintance of the
Spanish prior, Alonzo Lara. He calls me cousin; he
is a Nuevo of the fourteenth century. Very orthodox;
but the love of the old land and the old language
have come out in him, as they will, though his blood
is no longer clear, but has been modified by many
Gothic intermarriages, which was never our case.
We are pure Sephardim. Lara thoroughly compre-
hends Palestine and all that pertains to it. He has
been there a quarter of a century, and might have
been Archbishop of Seville. You see, he is master of
the old as well as the new learning; this is very im-
portant; they often explain each other. Your bishops
here know nothing about these things. How can
they ? A few centuries back they were tattooed sav-
ages. This is the advantage which Rome has over
you, and which you never can understand. That
Church was founded by a Hebrew, and the magnetic
influence Hngers. But you will go to the fountain
head. Theology requires an apprenticeship of some
thousand years at least; to say nothing of clime and
race. You cannot get on with theology as you do
with chemistry and mechanics. Tri^t me, there is
something deeper in it. I shall giyQljou^s, note to —
Lara; cultivate him, he is the m^n W)u want. You
will want others; they will come; b/it Lara has the
first key.'

i62 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

*I am sorry to trouble you about such things,' said
Tancred, in a hesitating voice, 'but perhaps I may
not have the great pleasure to see you again, and
Lord Eskdale said that I was to speak to you about
some letters of credit.'

'Oh! we shall meet before you go. But what you
say reminds me of something. As for money, there
is only one banker in Syria; he is everywhere, at
Aleppo, Damascus, Beiroot, Jerusalem. It is Besso.
Before the expulsion of the Egyptians, he really ruled
Syria, but he is still powerful, though they have en-
deavoured to crush him at Constantinople. I applied
to Metternich about him, and, besides that, he is mine.
I shall give you a letter to him, but not merely for
your money affairs. I wish you to know him. He
lives in splendour at Damascus, moderately at Jeru-
salem, where there is little to do, but which he loves
as a residence, being a Hebrew. I wish you to know
him. You will, I am sure, agree with me, that he is,
without exception, the most splendid specimen of the
animal man you ever became acquainted with. His
name is Adam, and verily he looks as if he were in
the garden of Eden before the fall. But his soul is as
grand and as fine as his body. You will lean upon this
man as you would on a faithful charger. His divan
is charming; you will always find there the most in-
telligent people. You must learn to smoke. There is
nothing that Besso cannot do; make him do every-
thing you want; have no scruples; he will be grati-
fied. Besides, he is one of those who kiss my signet.
These two letters will open Syria to you, and any
other land, if you care to proceed. Give yourself no
trouble about any other preparations.*

*And how am I to thank you?' said Tancred, ris-

TANCRED

ing; 'and how am I to express to you all my grati-
tude?'

*What are you going to do with yourself to-mor-
row?' said Sidonia. 'I never go anywhere; but I
have a few friends who are so kind as to come some-
times to me. There are two or three persons dining
with me to-morrow, whom you might like to meet.
Will you do so?'

*I shall be most proud and pleased.'

* That's well. It is not here; it is in Carlton Gar-
dens; at sunset.' And Sidonia continued the letter
which he was writing when Tancred entered.

CHAPTER XVIII.

An Interesting Rencontre.

HEN Tancred returned home, musing,
I from a visit to Sidonia, he found the
following note:

' Lady Bertie and Bellair returns
Lord Montacute his carriage with a

thousand compliments and thanks. She fears she greatly
incommoded Lord Montacute, but begs to assure him
how very sensible she is of his considerate courtesy.
* Upper Brook Street, Wednesday.'

The handwriting was of that form of scripture
which attracts; refined yet energetic; full of charac-
ter. Tancred recognised the titles of Bertie and Bel-
lair as those of two not inconsiderable earldoms, now
centred in the same individual. Lady Bertie and Bel-
lair was herself a lady of the high nobility; a daugh-
ter of the present Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine; the son of
that duke who was the father-in-law of Lord de
Mowbray, and whom Lady Firebrace, the present
Lady Bardolf, and Tadpole, had dexterously converted
to conservatism by persuading him that he was to be
Sir Robert's Irish viceroy. Lady Bertie and Bellair,
therefore, was first-cousin to Lady Joan Mountchesney,

(164)

TANCRED

165

and her sister, who is still Lady Maud Fitz-Warene.
Tancred was surprised that he never recollected to
have met before one so distinguished and so beautiful.
His conversation with Sidonia, however, had driven
the little adventure of the morning from his memory,
and now that it was thus recalled to him, he did not
dwell upon it. His being was absorbed in his para-
mount purpose. The sympathy of Sidonia, so com-
plete, and as instructive as it was animating, was a
sustaining power which we often need when we are
meditating great deeds. How often, when all seems
dark, and hopeless, and spiritless, and tame, when
slight obstacles figure in the cloudy landscape as Alps,
and the rushing cataracts of our invention have sub-
sided into drizzle, a single phrase of a great man
instantaneously flings sunshine on the intellectual land-
scape, and the habitual features of power and beauty,
over which we have so long mused in secret confi-
dence and love, resume all their energy and lustre.

The haunting thought that occasionally, notwith-
standing his strong will, would perplex the soul and
agitate the heart of Tancred; the haunting thought
that, all this time, he was perhaps the dupe of boyish
fantasies, was laid to-day. Sometimes he had felt,
Why does no one sympathise with my views; why,
though they treat them with conventional respect, is
it clear that all I have addressed hold them to be ab-
surd? My parents are pious and instructed; they are
predisposed to view everything I say, or do, or think,
with an even excessive favour. They think me
moonstruck. Lord Eskdale is a perfect man of the
world; proverbially shrewd, and celebrated for his
judgment; he looks upon me as a raw boy, and be-
lieves that, if my father had kept me at Eton and

i66 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

sent me to Paris, I should by this time have ex-
hausted my crudities. The bishop is what the world
calls a great scholar; he is a statesman who, aloof
from faction, ought to be accustomed to take just and
comprehensive views; and a priest who ought to be
under the immediate influence of the Holy Spirit. He
says I am a visionary. All this might well be dis-
heartening; but now comes one whom no circum-
stances impel to judge my project with indulgence;
who would, at the first glance, appear to have many
prejudices arrayed against it, who knows more of the
world than Lord Eskdale, and who appears to me to
be more learned than the whole bench of bishops,
and he welcomes my ideas, approves my conclusions,
sympathises with my suggestions; develops, illus-
trates, enforces them; plainly intimates that I am only
on the threshold of initiation, and would aid me to
advance to the innermost mysteries.

There was this night a great ball at Lady Bardolf s,
in Belgrave Square. One should generally mention
localities, because very often they indicate character.
Lady Bardolf lived next door to Mrs. Guy Flouncey.
Both had risen in the world, though it requires some
esoteric knowledge to recognise the patrician par-
venue; and both had finally settled themselves down
in the only quarter which Lady Bardolf thought
worthy of her new coronet, and Mrs. Guy Flouncey
of her new visiting list.

Lady Bardolf had given up the old family mansion
of the Firebraces in Hanover Square, at the same time
that she had resigned their old title. Politics being
dead, in consequence of the majority of 1841, who,
after a little kicking for the million, satisfactorily as-
sured the minister that there was no vice in them,

I

TANCRED 167

Lady Bardolf had chalked out a new career, and one
of a still more eminent and exciting character than
her previous pursuit. Lady Bardolf was one of those
ladies — there are several — who entertain the curious
idea that they need only to be known in certain high
quarters to be immediately selected as the principal
objects of court favour. Lady Bardolf was always
putting herself in the way of it; she never lost an
opportunity; she never missed a drawing-room, con-
trived to be at all the court balls, plotted to be in-
vited to a costume fete, and expended the tactics of
a campaign to get asked to some grand chateau hon-
oured by august presence. Still Her Majesty had not
yet sent for Lady Bardolf. She was still very good
friends with Lord Masque, for he had social influence,
and could assist her; but as for poor Tadpole, she had
sadly neglected him, his sphere being merely political,
and that being no longer interesting. The honest
gentleman still occasionally buzzed about her, slaver-
ing portentous stories about malcontent country gen-
tlemen, mumbling Maynooth, and shaking his head at
Young England. Tadpole was wont to say in con-
fidence, that for his part he wished Sir Robert had
left alone religion and commerce, and confined him-
self to finance, which was his forte as long as he had
a majority to carry the projects which he found in
the pigeon-holes of the Treasury, and which are al-
ways at the service of every minister.

Well, it was at Lady Bardolfs ball, close upon
midnight, that Tancred, who had not long entered,
and had not very far advanced in the crowded saloons,
turning his head, recognised his heroine of the morn-
ing, his still more recent correspondent. Lady Bertie
and Bellair. She was speaking to Lord Valentine. It

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i68 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

was impossible to mistake her; rapid as had been his
former observation of her face, it was too remarkable
to be forgotten, though the captivating details were
only the result of his present more advantageous in-
spection. A small head and large dark eyes, dark as
her rich hair which was quite unadorned, a pale but
delicate complexion, small pearly teeth, were charms
that crowned a figure rather too much above the
middle height, yet undulating and not without grace.
Her countenance was calm without being grave; she
smiled with her eyes.

She was for a moment alone; she looked round,
and recognised Tancred; she bowed to him with a
beaming glance. Instantly he was at her side.

'Our second meeting to-day,' she said, in a low,
sweet voice.

* How came it that we never met before ? ' he re-
plied.

'I have just returned from Paris; the first time I
have been out; and, had it not been for you,' she
added, M should not have been here to-night. I
think they would have put me in prison.'

' Lady Bardolf ought to be very much obliged to
me, and so ought the world.*

'I am,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair.

'That is worth everything else,' said Tancred.

'What a pretty carriage you have I I do not think
I shall ever get into mine again. I am almost glad
they have destroyed my chariot. I am sure I shall
never be able to drive in anything else now except a
brougham.'

' Why did you not keep mine ? '

'You are magnificent; too gorgeous and oriental
for these cold climes. You shower your presents as

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169

if you were in the East, which Lord Valentine tells
me you are about to visit. When do you leave us ? '

M think of going immediately.'

'Indeed!' said Lady Bertie and Bellair, and her
countenance changed. There was a pause, and then
she continued playfully, yet as it were half in sad-
ness, 'I almost wish you had not come to my rescue
this morning.'

'And why?'

' Because I do not like to make agreeable acquaint-
ances only to lose them.'

*I think that I am most to be pitied,' said Tancred.

'You are wearied of the world very soon. Before
you can know us, you leave us.'

*I am not wearied of the world, for indeed, as
you say, I know nothing of it. I am here by acci-
dent, as you were in the stoppage to-day. It will
disperse, and then I shall get on.'

' Lord Valentine tells me that you are going to real-
ise my dream of dreams, that you are going to Jeru-
salem.'

*Ah!' said Tancred, kindling, 'you too have felt
that want?'

'But I never can pardon myself for not having
satisfied it,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair in a mourn-
ful tone, and looking in his face with her beautiful
dark eyes. Mt is the mistake of my life, and now
can never be remedied. But I have no energy. I
ought, as a girl, when they opposed my purpose, to
have taken up my palmer's staff, and never have
rested content till I had gathered my shell on the
strand of Joppa.'

'It is the right feeling ' said Tancred. 'I am per-
suaded we ought all to go.'

I70 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

'But we remain here,' said the lady, in a tone of
suppressed and elegant anguish; 'here, where we all
complain of our hopeless lives; with not a thought
beyond the passing hour, yet all bewailing its weari-
some and insipid moments.'

'Our lot is cast in a material age,' said Tancred.

'The spiritual can alone satisfy me,' said Lady
Bertie and Bellair.

'Because you have a soul,' continued Tancred,
with animation, 'still of a celestial hue. They are
rare in the nineteenth century. Nobody now thinks
about heaven. They never dream of angels. All their
existence is concentrated in steamboats and railways.'

'You are right,' said the lady, earnestly; 'and you
fly from it.'

'I go for other purposes; I would say even higher
ones,' said Tancred.

'I can understand you; your feelings are my own.
Jerusalem has been the dream of my life. I have al-
ways been endeavouring to reach it, but somehow or
other I never got further than Paris.'

'And yet it is very easy now to get to Jerusalem,'
said Tancred; 'the great difficulty, as a very remark-
able man said to me this morning, is to know what
to do when you are there.'

* Who said that to you ? ' inquired Lady Bertie and
Bellair, bending her head.

' It was the person I was going to call upon when
I met you; Monsieur de Sidonia.'

'Monsieur de Sidonia!' said the lady, with anima-
tion. 'Ah! you know him?'

'Not as much as I could wish. I saw him to-day
for the first time. My cousin, Lord Eskdale, gave me
a letter of introduction to him, for his advice and as-

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171

sistance about my journey. Sidonia has been a great
traveller.'

'There is no person I wish to know so much as
M. de Sidonia,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair. * He is a
great friend of Lord Eskdale, I think? I must get
Lord Eskdale,' she added, musingly, 'to give me a
little dinner, and ask M. de Sidonia to meet me.'

'He never goes anywhere; at least I have heard
so/ said Tancred.

* He once used to do, and to give us great fetes.
1 remember hearing of them before I was out. We
must make him resume them. He is immensely rich.'

M dare say he may be,' said Tancred. *I wonder
how a man with his intellect and ideas can think of
the accumulation of wealth.'

"Tis his destiny,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair.
' He can no more disembarrass himself of his heredi-
tary millions than a dynasty of the cares of empire.
I wonder if he will get the Great Northern. They
talked of nothing else at Paris.'

* Of what?' said Tancred.

*0h! let us talk of Jerusalem!' said Lady Bertie
and Bellair. 'Ah, here is Augustus! Let me make
you and my husband acquainted.*

Tancred almost expected to see the moustached
companion of the morning, but it was not so. Lord
Bertie and Bellair was a tall, thin, distinguished,
withered-looking young man, who thanked Tancred
for his courtesy of the morning with a sort of gracious
negligence, and, after some easy talk, asked Tancred
to dine with them on the morrow. He was engaged,
but he promised to call on Lady Bertie and Bellair
immediately, and see some drawings of the Holy
Land.

CHAPTER XIX.

Lord Henry Sympathises.

ASSING through a marble ante-
chamber, Tancred was ushered
into an apartment half saloon and
half library; the choicely-bound
volumes, which were not too nu-
merous, were ranged on shelves in-
laid in the walls, so that they ornamented, without
diminishing, the apartment. These walls were painted
in encaustic, corresponding with the coved ceiling,
'which was richly adorned in the same fashion. A curtain
of violet velvet, covering if necessary the large window,
which looked upon a balcony full of flowers, and the
umbrageous Park; an Axminster carpet, manufactured
to harmonise both in colour and design with the rest
of the chamber; a profusion of luxurious seats; a
large table of ivory marquetry, bearing a carved silver
bell which once belonged to a pope; a Naiad, whose
golden urn served as an inkstand; some daggers that
acted as paper cutters, and some French books just
arrived; a group of beautiful vases recently released
from an Egyptian tomb and ranged on a tripod of
malachite: the portrait of a statesman, and the bust
of an emperor, and a sparkling fire, were all circum-
stances which made the room both interesting and
(172)

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173

comfortable in which Sidonia welcomed Tancred and
introduced him to a guest who had preceded him,
Lord Henry Sydney.

It was a name that touched Tancred, as it has all
the youth of England, significant of a career that
would rescue public life from that strange union of
lax principles and contracted sympathies which now
form the special and degrading features of British
politics. It was borne by one whose boyhood we
have painted amid the fields and schools of Eton, and
the springtime of whose earliest youth we traced by
the sedgy waters of the Cam. We left him on the
threshold of public life; and, in four years, Lord
Henry had created that reputation which now made
him a source of hope and solace to millions of his
countrymen. But they were four years of labour
which outweighed the usual exertions of public men
in double that space. His regular attendance in the
House of Commons alone had given him as much
Parliamentary experience as fell to the lot of many of
those who had been first returned in 1837, and had
been, therefore, twice as long in the House. He was
not only a vigilant member of public and private com-
mittees, but had succeeded in appointing and con-
ducting several on topics which he esteemed of high
importance. Add to this, that he took an habitual
part in debate, and was a frequent and effective pub-
lic writer; and we are furnished with an additional
testimony, if that indeed were wanting, that there is
no incentive to exertion like the passion for a noble
renown. Nor should it be forgotten, that, in all he
accompHshed, he had but one final purpose, and
that the highest. The debate, the committee, the
article in the Journal or the Review, the public meet-

174 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

ing, the private research, these were all means to ad-
vance that which he had proposed as the object of
his public life, namely, to elevate the condition of the
people.

Although there was no public man whose powers
had more rapidly ripened, still it was interesting to
observe that their maturity had been faithful to the
healthy sympathies of his earlier years. The boy,
whom we have traced intent upon the revival of the
pastimes of the people, had expanded into the states-
man, who, in a profound and comprehensive investi
gation of the elements of public wealth, had shown
that a jaded population is not a source of national
prosperity. What had been a picturesque emotion
had now become a statistical argument. The ma-
terial system that proposes the supply of constant toil
to a people as the perfection of polity, had received
a staggering blow from the exertions of a young pa-
trician, who announced his belief that labour had its
rights as well as its duties. What was excellent
about Lord Henry was, that he was not a mere phi-
lanthropist, satisfied to rouse public attention to a
great social evil, or instantly to suggest for it some
crude remedy.

A scholar and a man of the world, learned in his-
tory and not inexperienced in human nature, he was
sensible that we must look to the constituent prin-
ciples of society for the causes and the cures of great
national disorders. He therefore went deeply into the
question, nor shrank from investigating how far those
disorders were produced by the operation or the des-
uetude of ancient institutions, and how far it might
be necessary to call new influences into political ex-
istence for their remedy. Richly informed, still stu-

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175

dious, fond of labour and indefatigable, of a gentle
disposition though of an ardent mind, calm yet ener-
getic, very open to conviction, but possessing an in-
flexibility amounting even to obstinacy when his
course was once taken, a ready and improving
speaker, an apt and attractive writer, affable and sin-
cere, and with the undesigning faculty of making
friends, Lord Henry seemed to possess all the quali-
ties of a popular leader, if we add to them the golden
ones: high Hneage, an engaging appearance, youth,
and a temperament in which the reason had not been
developed to the prejudice of the heart.

'And when do you start for the Holy Land?' said
Lord Henry to Tancred, in a tone and with a coun-
tenance which proved his sympathy.

*I have clutched my staff, but the caravan lingers.'

* I envy you! '

* Why do you not go ? '

Lord Henry slightly shrugged his shoulders, and
said, Mt is too late. I have begun my work and I
cannot leave it.'

Mf a Parliamentary career could save this country,'
said Tancred, ' I am sure you would be a pubHc bene-
factor. I have observed what you and Mr. Con-
ingsby and some of your friends have done and said,
with great interest. But Parhament seems to me to
be the very place which a man of action should avoid.
A Parliamentary career, that old superstition of the
eighteenth century, was important when there were
no other sources of power and fame. An aristocracy
at the head of a people whom they had plundered of
their means of education, required some cultivated
tribunal whose sympathy might stimulate their intelli-
gence and satisfy their vanity. Parliament was never

176 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

so great as when they debated with closed doors.
The public opinion, of which they never dreamed,
has superseded the rhetorical club of our great-grand-
fathers. They know this well enough, and try to
maintain their unnecessary position by affecting the
character of men of business, but amateur men of
business are very costly conveniences. In this age it
is not Parliament that does the real work. It does
not govern Ireland, for example. If the manufacturers
want to change a tariff, they form a commercial
league, and they effect their purpose. It is the same
with the abolition of slavery, and all our great revo-
lutions. Parliament has become as really insignificant
as for two centuries it has kept the monarch. O'Con-
nell has taken a good share of its power; Cobden has
taken another; and I am inclined to believe,' said
Tancred, 'though I care little about it, that, if our
order had any spirit or prescience, they would put
themselves at the head of the people, and take the
rest.'

'Coningsby dines here to-day,' said Sidonia, who,
unobserved, had watched Tancred as he spoke, with
a searching glance.

'Notwithstanding what you say,' said Lord Henry,
smiling, 'I wish I could induce you to remain and
help us. You would be a great ally.'

'I go to a land,' said Tancred, 'that has never
been blessed by that fatal drollery called a represent-
ative government, though Omniscience once deigned
to trace out the polity which should rule it.'

At this moment the servant announced Lord and
Lady Marney.

Political sympathy had created a close intimacy
between Lord Marney and Coningsby. They were

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177'

necessary to each other. They were both men en-
tirely devoted to public affairs, and sitting in dif-
ferent Houses, both young, and both masters of
fortunes of the first class, they were indicated as in-
dividuals who hereafter might take a lead, and, far
from clashing, would co-operate with each other.
Through Coningsby the Marneys had become ac-
quainted with Sidonia, who liked them both, particu-
larly Sybil. Although received by society with open
arms, especially by the high nobility, who affected to
look upon Sybil quite as one of themselves. Lady
Marney, notwithstanding the homage that every-
where awaited her, had already shown a disposition
to retire as much as possible within the precinct of a
chosen circle.

This was her second season, and Sybil ventured
to think that she had made, in the general gaieties of
her first, a sufficient oblation to the genius of fashion,
and the immediate requirements of her social position.
Her life was faithful to its first impulse. Devoted to
the improvement of the condition of the people, she
was the moving spring of the charitable development
of this great city. Her house, without any pedantic
effort, had become the focus of a refined society,
who, though obliged to show themselves for the mo-
ment in the great carnival, wear their masks, blow
their trumpets, and pelt the multitude with sugar-
plums, were glad to find a place where they could
at all times divest themselves of their mummery, and
return to their accustomed garb of propriety and
good taste.

Sybil, too, felt alone in the world. Without a
relation, without an acquaintance of early and other
days, she clung to her husband with a devotion

178 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

which was peculiar as well as profound. Egremont
was to her more than a husband and a lover; he was
her only friend; it seemed to Sybil that he could be her
only friend. The disposition of Lord Marney was not
opposed to the habits of his wife. Men, when they
are married, often shrink from the glare and bustle of
those social multitudes which are entered by bache-
lors with the excitement of knights-errant in a fairy
wilderness, because they are supposed to be rife with
adventures, and, perhaps, fruitful of a heroine. The
adventure sometimes turns out to be a catastrophe,
and the heroine a copy instead of an original; but let
that pass.

Lord Marney liked to be surrounded by those who
sympathised with his pursuit; and his pursuit was
politics, and politics on a great scale. The common-
place career of official distinction was at his com-
mand. A great peer, with abilities and ambition, a
good speaker, supposed to be a Conservative, he
might soon have found his way into the cabinet, and,
like the rest, have assisted in registering the decrees
of one too powerful individual. But Lord Marney
had been taught to think at a period of life when he
little dreamed of the responsibility which fortune had
in store for him.

The change in his position had not altered the con-
clusions at which he had previously arrived. He held
that the state of England, notwithstanding the super-
ficies of a material prosperity, was one of impending
doom, unless it were timely arrested by those who
were in high places. A man of fine mind rather than
of brilliant talents, Lord Marney found, in the more
vivid and impassioned intelligence of Coningsby, the
directing sympathy which he required. Tadpole looked

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179

upon his lordship as little short of insane. 'Do you
see that man?' he would say, as Lord Marney rode
by. 'He might be Privy Seal, and he throws it all
away for the nonsense of Young England!'

Mrs. Coningsby entered the room almost on the
footsteps of the Marneys.

'I am in despair about Harry,' she said, as she
gave a finger to Sidcnia, ' but he told me not to wait
for him later than eight. I suppose he is kept at
the House. Do you know anything of him. Lord
Henry ? '

'You may make yourself quite easy about him,'
said Lord Henry. ' He promised Vavasour to support
a motion which he has to-day, and perhaps speak on
it. I ought to be there too, but Charles Buller told
me there would certainly be no division and so I
ventured to pair off with him.'

'He will come with Vavasour,' said Sidonia, 'who
makes up our party. They will be here before we
have seated ourselves/

The gentlemen had exchanged the usual inquiry,
whether there was anything new to-day, without
waiting for the answer. Sidonia introduced Tancred
and Lord Marney.

'And what have you been doing to-day.?' said
Edith to Sybil, by whose side she had seated herself.
' Lady Bardolf did nothing last night but grander me,
because you never go to her parties. In vain I said
that you looked upon her as the most odious of her
sex, and her balls the pest of society. She was not
in the least satisfied. And how is Gerard?*

'Why, we really have been very uneasy about
him,' said Lady Marney, 'but the last bulletin,' she
added, with a smile, 'announces a tooth.'

i8o BENJAMIN DISRAELI

' Next year you must give him a pony, and let him
ride with my Harry; I mean my little Harry, Harry of
Monmouth I call him; he is so like a portrait Mr.
Coningsby has of his grandfather, the same debauched
look.'

*Your dinner is served, sir!'

Sidonia offered his hand to Lady Marney; Edith
was attended by Tancred. A door at the end of the
room opened into a marble corridor, which led to the
dining-room, decorated in the same style as the library.
It was a suite of apartments which Sidonia used for
an intimate circle like the present.

I

CHAPTER XX.

A Modern Troubadour.

HEY seated themselves at a round
table, on which everything seemed
brilliant and sparkling; nothing
heavy, nothing oppressive. There
was scarcely anything that Sidonia
disliked so much as a small table,
groaning, as it is aptly termed, with plate. He shrunk
from great masses of gold and silver; gigantic groups,
colossal shields, and mobs of tankards and flagons;
and never used them except on great occasions, when
the banquet assumes an Egyptian character, and be-
comes too vast for refinement. At present, the dinner
was served on Sevres porcelain of Rose du Barri,
raised on airy golden stands of arabesque workman-
ship; a mule bore your panniers of salt, or a sea-
nymph proffered it you on a shell just fresh from the
ocean, or you found it in a bird's nest; by every
guest a different pattern. In the centre of the table,
mounted on a pedestal, was a group of pages in
Dresden china. Nothing could be more gay than
their bright cloaks and flowing plumes, more elabo-
rately exquisite than their laced shirts and rosettes, or
more fantastically saucy than their pretty affected
faces, as each, with extended arm, held a light to a

(i8i)

1 82 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

guest. The room was otherwise illumined from the
sides.

The guests had scarcely seated themselves when
the two absent ones arrived.

'Well, you did not divide, Vavasour,* said Lord
Henry.

'Did I not?' said Vavasour; 'and nearly beat the
Government. You are a pretty fellow!'
' 1 was paired.'

'With some one who could not stay. Your
brother, Mrs. Coningsby, behaved like a man, sacri-
ficed his dinner, and made a capital speech.'

' Oh ! Oswald, did he speak ? Did you speak,
Harry?'

'No; I voted. There was too much speaking as
it was; if Vavasour had not repHed, I believe we
should have won.'

'But then, my dear fellow, think of my points;
think how they laid themselves open!'

'A majority is always the best repartee,' said
Coningsby.

'I have been talking with Montacute,' whispered
Lord Henry to Coningsby, who was seated next to
him. ' Wonderful fellow! You can conceive nothing
richer! Very wild, but all the right ideas; exaggerated
of course. You must get hold of him after dinner.'

'But they say he is going to Jerusalem.'

' But he will return.'

'I do not know that; even Napoleon regretted
that he had ever re-crossed the Mediterranean. The
East is a career.'

Mr. Vavasour was a social favourite; a poet and
a real poet, and a troubadour, as well as a member
of Parhament; travelled, sweet-tempered, and good-

TANCRED

hearted; amusing and clever. With catholic sympa-
thies and an eclectic turn of mind, Mr. Vavasour saw
something good in everybody and everything, which
is certainly amiable, and perhaps just, but disqualifies
a man in some degree for the business of life, which
requires for its conduct a certain degree of prejudice.
Mr. Vavasour's breakfasts were renowned. Whatever
your creed, class, or country, one might almost add
your character, you were a welcome guest at his
matutinal meal, provided you were celebrated. That
qualification, however, was rigidly enforced.

It not rarely happened that never were men more
incongruously grouped. Individuals met at his hos-
pitable house who had never met before, but who for
years had been cherishing in solitude mutual detesta-
tion, with all the irritable exaggeration of the literary
character. Vavasour liked to be the Amphitryon of a
cluster of personal enemies. He prided himself on
figuring as the social medium by which rival reputa-
tions became acquainted, and paid each other in his
presence the compliments which veiled their Ineffable
disgust. All this was very well at his rooms in the
Albany, and only funny; but when he collected his
menageries at his ancestral hall in a distant county,
the sport sometimes became tragic.

A real philosopher, alike from his genial disposi-
tion and from the influence of his rich and various
information. Vavasour moved amid the strife, sympa-
thising with every one; and perhaps, after all, the
philanthropy which was his boast was not untinged
by a dash of humour, of which rare and charming
quality he possessed no inconsiderable portion. Vava-
sour liked to know everybody who was known, and
to see everything which ought to be seen. He also

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1 84 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

was of opinion tliat everybody who was known ought
to know him; and that the spectacle, however splen-
did or exciting, was not quite perfect without his
presence.

His life was a gyration of energetic curiosity; an
insatiable whirl of social celebrity. There was not a
congregation of sages and philosophers in any part of
Europe which he did not attend as a brother. He
was present at the camp of Kalisch in his yeomanry
uniform, and assisted at the festivals of Barcelona in
an Andalusian jacket. He was everywhere, and at
everything; he had gone down in a diving-bell and
gone up in a balloon. As for his acquaintances, he
was welcomed in every land; his universal sympa-
thies seemed omnipotent. Emperor and king, jacobin
and carbonaro, alike cherished him. He was the
steward of Polish balls and the vindicator of Russian
humanity; he dined with Louis Philippe, and gave
dinners to Louis Blanc.

This was a dinner of which the guests came to
partake. Though they delighted in each other's so-
ciety, their meetings were not so rare that they need
sacrifice the elegant pleasures of a refined meal
for the opportunity of conversation. They let that
take its chance, and ate and drank without affectation.
Nothing so rare as a female dinner where people eat,
and few things more delightful. On the present oc-
casion some time elapsed, while the admirable per-
formances of Sidonia's cook were discussed, with
little interruption; a burst now and then from the
ringing voice of Mrs. Coningsby crossing a lance with
her habitual opponent, Mr. Vavasour, who, however,
generally withdrew from the skirmish when a fresh
dish was handed to him.

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185

At length, the second course being served, Mrs.
Coningsby said, *I think you have all eaten enough:
I have a piece of information for you. There is going
to be a costume ball at the Palace.'

This announcement produced a number of simul-
taneous remarks and exclamations. 'When was it to
be? What was it to be.? An age, or a country; or
an olio of all ages and all countries ? '

*An age is a masquerade,' said Sidonia. 'The
more contracted the circle, the more perfect the illu-
sion.'

*0h, no!' said Vavasour, shaking his head. 'An
age is the thing; it is a much higher thing. What
can be finer than to represent the spirit of an age.?*'

'And Mr. Vavasour to perform the principal part,'
said Mrs. Coningsby. 'I know exactly what he
means. He wants to dance the polka as Petrarch, and
find a Laura in every partner.'

'You have no poetical feeling,' said Mr. Vavasour,
waving his hand. 'I have often told you so.'

'You will easily find Lauras, Mr. Vavasour, if you
often write such beautiful verses as I have been read-
ing to-day,' said Lady Marney.

'You, on the contrary,' said Mr. Vavasour, bowing,
'have a great deal of poetic feeling. Lady Marney; I
have always said so.'

'But give us your news, Edith,' said Coningsby.
' Imagine our suspense, when it is a question, whether
we are all to look picturesque or quizzical.'

' Ah, you want to know whether you can go as Car-
dinal Mazarin, or the Duke of Ripperda, Harry. I
know exactly what you all are now thinking of; whether
you will draw the prize in the forthcoming lottery,
and get exactly the epoch and the character which

1 86 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

suit you. Is it not so, Lord Montacute ? Would not
you like to practise a little with your crusados at the
Queen's ball before you go to the Holy Sepulchre?'

*I would rather hear your description of it,' said
Tancred.

'Lord Henry, I see, is half inclined to be your
companion as a Red-cross Knight,' continued Edith.
'As for Lady Marney, she is the successor of Mrs.
Fry, and would wish, I am sure, to go to the ball as
her representative.'

' And pray what are you thinking of being ? ' said
Mr. Vavasour. 'We should like very much to be
favoured with Mrs. Coningsby's ideal of herself.'

'Mrs. Coningsby leaves the ideal to poets. She is
quite satisfied to remain what she is, and it is her
intention to do so, though she means to go to Her
Majesty's ball.'

' I see that you are in the secret,' said Lord Marney.

'If I could only keep secrets, I might turn out
something,' said Mrs. Coningsby. 'I am the deposi-
tary of so much that is occult — joys, sorrows, plots,
and scrapes; but I always tell Harry, and he always
betrays me. Well, you must guess a little. Lady
Marney begins.'

'Well, we were at one at Turin,' said Lady Mar-
ney, 'and it was oriental, Lalla Rookh. Are you to
be a sultana?'

Mrs. Coningsby shook her head.

'Come, Edith,' said her husband; 'if you know,
which I doubt '

' Oh ! you doubt '

'Valentine told me yesterday,' said Mr. Vavasour,
in a mock peremptory tone, ' that there would not
be a ball.'

TANCRED

187

'And Lord Valentine told me yesterday that there
would be a ball, and what the ball would be; and
what is more, I have fixed on my dress,' said Mrs.
Coningsby.

'Such a rapid decision proves that much antiqua-
rian research is not necessary,' said Sidonia. 'Your
period is modern.'

'Ah!' said Edith, looking at Sidonia, 'he always
finds me out. Well, Mr. Vavasour, you will not be
able to crown yourself with a laurel wreath, for the
gentlemen will wear wigs.'

' Louis Quatorze ? ' said her husband. * Peel as
Louvois.'

'No, Sir Robert would be content with nothing
less than Le Grand Colbert, rue Richelieu, No. 75,
grand magasin de nouveautes trts-anciennesi prix fixi,
avec quelques rabais.'

' A description of Conservatism,' said Coningsby.

The secret was soon revealed: every one had a
conjecture and a commentary: gentlemen in wigs,
and ladies powdered, patched, and sacked. Vavasour
pondered somewhat dolefully on the anti-poetic spirit
of the age; Coningsby hailed him as the author of
Leonidas.

'And you, I suppose, will figure as one of the
"boys" arrayed against the great Sir Robert?' said
Mr. Vavasour, with a countenance of mock veneration
for that eminent personage.

'The "boys" beat him at last,' said Coningsby;
and then, with a rapid precision and a richness of
colouring which were peculiar to him, he threw out
a sketch which placed the period before them; and
they began to tear it to tatters, select the incidents,
and apportion the characters.

i88 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Two things which are necessary to a perfect
dinner are noiseless attendants, and a precision in
serving the various dishes of each course, so that they
may all be placed upon the table at the same mo-
ment. A deficiency in these respects produces that
bustle and delay which distract many an agreeable
conversation and spoil many a pleasant dish. These
two excellent characteristics were never wanting at
the dinners of Sidonia. At no house was there less
parade. The appearance of the table changed as if by
the waving of a wand, and silently as a dream. And
at this moment, the dessert being arranged, fruits and
their beautiful companions, flowers, reposed in ala-
baster baskets raised on silver stands of filigree
work.

There was half an hour of merry talk, graceful and
gay: a good story, a bon-mot fresh from the mint,
some raillery like summer lightning, vivid but not
scorching.

'And now,' said Edith, as the ladies rose to re-
turn to the library, 'and now we leave you to May-
nooth.*

' By-the-bye, what do they say to it in your House,
Lord Marney?' inquired Henry Sydney, filling his
glass.

Mt will go down,* said Lord Marney. *A strong
dose for some, but they are used to potent potions.'

'The bishops, they say, have not made up their
minds.'

'Fancy bishops not having made up their minds,'
exclaimed Tancred: 'the only persons who ought
never to doubt.'

'Except when they are offered a bishopric,' said
Lord Marney.

TANCRED

'Why I like this Maynooth project,' said Tancred,
'though otherwise it little interests me, is, that all
the shopkeepers are against it.'

'Don't tell that to the minister,' said Coningsby,
*or he will give up the measure/

'Well, that is the very reason,' said Vavasour,
'why, though otherwise inclined to the grant, I hesi-
tate as to my vote. 1 have the highest opinion of
the shopkeepers; I sympathise even with their prej-
udices. They are the class of the age; they represent
its order, its decency, its industry.'

'And you represent them,' said Coningsby. * Va-
vasour is the quintessence of order, decency, and in-
dustry.'

'You may jest,' said Vavasour, shaking his head
with a spice of solemn drollery; 'but public opinion
must and ought to be respected, right or wrong.*

'What do you mean by public opinion?' said
Tancred.

'The opinion of the reflecting majority,' said Vava-
sour.

'Those who don't read your poems,' said Con-
ingsby.

'Boy, boy!' said Vavasour, who could endure rail-
lery from one he had been at college with, but who
was not over-pleased at Coningsby selecting the pres-
ent occasion to claim his franchise, when a new man
was present like Lord Montacute, on whom Vavasour
naturally wished to produce an impression. It must
be owned that it was not, as they say, very good
taste in the husband of Edith, but prosperity had de-
veloped in Coningsby a native vein of sauciness which
it required all the solemnity of the senate to repress.
Indeed, even there, upon the benches, with a grave

I90 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

face, he often indulged in quips and cranks that con-
vulsed his neighbouring audience, who often, amid
the long dreary nights of statistical imposture, sought
refuge in his gay sarcasms, his airy personalities, and
happy quotations.

'I do not see how there can be opinion without
thought,' said Tancred; 'and I do not believe the pub-
lic ever think. How can they? They have no time.
Certainly we live at present under the empire of gen-
eral ideas, which are extremely powerful. But the
public have not invented those ideas. They have
adopted them from convenience. No one has con-
fidence in himself; on the contrary, every one has a
mean idea of his own strength and has no reliance
on his own judgment. Men obey a general impulse,
they bow before an external necessity, whether for
resistance or action. Individuality is dead; there is a
want of inward and personal energy in man; and
that is what people feel and mean when they go
about complaining there is no faith.'

'You would hold, then,' said Henry Sydney, 'that
the progress of public liberty marches with the decay
of personal greatness?'

' It would seem so.'

' But the majority will always prefer public liberty
to personal greatness,' said Lord Marney.

' But, without personal greatness, you never would
have had public liberty,' said Coningsby.

'After all, it is civilisation that you are kicking
against,' said Vavasour.

'1 do not understand what you mean by civiHsa-
tion,' said Tancred.

'The progressive development of the faculties of
man,' said Vavasour.

TANCRED

191

*Yes, but what is progressive development?' said
Sidonia; *and what are the faculties of man? If de-
velopment be progressive, how do you account for
the state of Italy? One will tell you it is supersti-
tion, indulgences, and the Lady of Loretto; yet three
centuries ago, when all these influences were much
more powerful, Italy was the soul of Europe. The
less prejudiced, a Puseyite for example, like our
friend Vavasour, will assure us that the state of Italy
has nothing to do with the spirit of its religion, but
that it is entirely an affair of commerce; a revolution
of commerce has convulsed its destinies. I cannot
forget that the world was once conquered by Italians
who had no commerce. Has the development of
Western Asia been progressive? It is a land of
tombs and ruins. Is China progressive, the most
ancient and numerous of existing societies? Is Eu-
rope itself progressive? Is Spain a tithe as great as
she was ? Is Germany as great as when she invented
printing; as she was under the rule of Charles the
Fifth ? France herself laments her relative inferiority
to the past. But England flourishes. Is it what you
call civilisation that makes England flourish? Is it
the universal development of the faculties Df man that
has rendered an island, almost unknown to the an-
cients, the arbiter of the world? Clearly not. It is
her inhabitants that have done this; it is an affair of
race. A Saxon race, protected by an insular position,
has stamped its diligent and methodic character on
the century. And when a superior race, with a supe-
rior idea to work and order, advances, its state will
be progressive, and we shall, perhaps, follow the ex-
ample of the desolate countries. All is race; there is
no other truth.'

192 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

' Because it includes all others ? ' said Lord Henry.
'You have said it.'

'As for Vavasour's definition of civihsation/ said
Coningsby, 'civilisation was more advanced in an-
cient than modern times; then what becomes of the
progressive principle? Look at the great centuries of
the Roman Empire! You had two hundred millions
of human beings governed by a jurisprudence so phil-
osophical that we have been obliged to adopt its
laws, and living in perpetual peace. The means of
communication, of which we now make such a boast,
were far more vast and extensive in those days.
What were the Great Western and the London and
Birmingham to the Appian and Flaminian roads ?
After two thousand five hundred years, parts of these
are still used. A man under the Antonines might
travel from Paris to Antioch with as much ease and
security as we go from London to York. As for free
trade, there never was a really unshackled commerce
except in the days when the whole of the Mediter-
ranean coasts belonged to one power. What a chat-
ter there is now about the towns, and how their
development is cited as the peculiarity of the age,
and the great security for public improvement. Why,
the Roman Empire was the empire of great cities.
Man was then essentially municipal.'

'What an empire!' said Sidonia. 'All the supe-
rior races in all the superior climes.'

'But how does all this accord with your and
Coningsby's favourite theory of the influence of indi-
vidual character?' said Vavasour to Sidonia; 'which
I hold, by-the-bye,' he added rather pompously, 'to
be entirely futile.'

'What is individual character but the personifica-

TANCRED

193

tion of race,' said Sidonia, Mts perfection and choice
exemplar ? Instead of being an inconsistency, the be-
lief in the influence of the individual is a corollary of
the original proposition.'

'I look upon a belief in the influence of indi-
vidual character as a barbarous superstition,' said
Vavasour.

'Vavasour believes that there would be no heroes
if there were a police,' said Coningsby; *but I be-
lieve that civilisation is only fatal to minstrels, and
that is the reason now we have no poets.'

'How do you account for the Polish failure in
1 83 1 ?' said Lord Marney. 'They had a capital army,
they were backed by the population, but they failed.
They had everything but a man.'

'Why were the Whigs smashed in 1834,' said
Coningsby, 'but because they had not a man?'

'What is the real explanation of the state of
Mexico?' said Sidonia. 'It has not a man.'

'So much for progress since the days of Charles
the Fifth,' said Henry Sydney. 'The Spaniards then
conquered Mexico, and now they cannot govern it.'

'So much for race,' said Vavasour. 'The race is
the same; why are not the results the same?'

'Because it is worn out,' said Sidonia. 'Why do
not the Ethiopians build another Thebes, or excavate
the colossal temples of the cataracts? The decay of
a race is an inevitable necessity, unless it lives in
deserts and never mixes its blood.'

CHAPTER XXI.

Sweet Sympathy.

AM sorry, my dear mother, that I
cannot accompany you; but I must
go down to my yacht this morn-
ing, and on my return from
Greenwich I have an engage-
ment.'

This was said about a week after the dinner at
Sidonia's, by Lord Montacute to the duchess.

*That terrible yacht!' thought the duchess.

Her Grace, a year ago, had she been aware of it,
would have deemed Tancred's engagement as fearful
an affair. The idea that her son should have called
every day for a week on a married lady, beautiful
and attractive, would have filled her with alarm
amounting almost to horror. Yet such was the inno-
cent case. It might at the first glance seem difficult
to reconcile the rival charms of the Basihsk and Lady
Bertie and Bellair, and to understand how Tancred
could be so interested in the preparations for a voy-
age which was to bear him from the individual in
whose society he found a daily gratification. But the
truth is, that Lady Bertie and Bellair was the only
person who sympathised with his adventure.
(194)

TANCRED

195

She listened with the liveliest concern to his ac-
count of all his progress; she even made many ad-
mirable suggestions, for Lady Bertie and Bellair had
been a frequent visitor at Cowes, and was quite in-
itiated in the mysteries of the dilettante service of the
Yacht Club. She was a capital sailor; at least she
always told Tancred so. But this was not the chief
source of sympathy, or the principal bond of union,
between them. It was not the voyage, so much as
the object of the voyage, that touched all the passion
of Lady Bertie and Bellair. Her heart was at Jerusa-
lem. The sacred city was the dream of her life; and,
amid the dissipations of May Fair and the distractions
of Belgravia, she had in fact all this time only been
thinking of Jehoshaphat and Sion. Strange coincidence
of sentiment — strange and sweet!

The enamoured Montacute hung over her with pi-
ous rapture, as they examined together Mr. Roberts's
Syrian drawings, and she alike charmed and aston-
ished him by her familiarity with every locality and
each detail. She looked like a beautiful prophetess as
she dilated with solemn enthusiasm on the sacred
scene. Tancred called on her every day, because
when he called the first time he had announced his
immediate departure, and so had been authorised to
promise that he would pay his respects to her every
day till he went. It was calculated that by these
means, that is to say three or four visits, they might
perhaps travel through Mr. Roberts's views together
before he left England, which would facilitate their
correspondence, for Tancred had engaged to write to
the only person in the world worthy of receiving his
letters. But, though separated. Lady Bertie and Bel-
lair would be with him in spirit; and once she sighed

196 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

and seemed to murmur that if his voyage could only
be postponed awhile, she might in a manner become
his fellow-pilgrim, for Lord Bertie, a great sportsman,
had a desire to kill antelopes, and, wearied with the
monotonous slaughter of English preserves, tired even
of the eternal moors, had vague thoughts of seeking
new sources of excitement amid the snipes of the
Grecian marshes, and the deer and wild boars of the
desert and the Syrian hills.

While his captain was repeating his inquiries for
instructions on the deck of the Basilisk at Greenwich,
moored off the Trafalgar Hotel, Tancred fell into rev-
eries of female ^pilgrims kneeling at the Holy Sepul-
chre by his side; then started, gave a hurried reply,
and drove back quickly to town, to pass the remain-
der of the morning in Brook Street.

The two or three days had expanded into two or
three weeks, and Tancred continued to call daily on
Lady Bertie and Bellair, to say farewell. It was not
wonderful: she was the only person in London who
understood him; so she delicately intimated, so he
profoundly felt. They had the same ideas; they must
have the same idiosyncrasy. The lady asked with a
sigh why they had not met before; Tancred found
some solace in the thought that they had at least be-
come acquainted. There was something about this
lady very interesting besides her beauty, her bright
intelligence, and her seraphic thoughts. She was evi-
dently the creature of impulse; to a certain degree
perhaps the victim of her imagination. She seemed
misplaced in life. The tone of the century hardly
suited her refined and romantic spirit. Her ethereal
nature seemed to shrink from the coarse reality which
invades in our days even the boudoirs of May Fair.

TANCRED

197

There was something in her appearance and the tem-
per of her being which rebuked the material, sordid,
calculating genius of our reign of Mammon.

Her presence in this world was a triumphant vin-
dication of the claims of beauty and of sentiment. It
was evident that she was not happy; for, though her
fair brow always lighted up when she met the glance
of Tancred, it was impossible not to observe that she
was sometimes strangely depressed, often anxious
and excited, frequently absorbed in reverie. Yet her
vivid intelligence, the clearness and precision of her
thought and fancy, never faltered. In the unknown
yet painful contest, the intellectual always triumphed.
It was impossible to deny that she was a woman of
great ability.

Nor could it for a moment be imagined that these
fitful moods were merely the routine intimations that
her domestic hearth was not as happy as it deserved
to be. On the contrary. Lord and Lady Bertie and
Bellair were the very best friends; she always spoke
of her husband with interest and kindness; they were
much together, and there evidently existed between
them mutual confidence. His lordship's heart, indeed,
was not at Jerusalem; and perhaps this want of sym-
pathy on a subject of such rare and absorbing inter-
est might account for the occasional musings of his
wife, taking refuge in her own solitary and devoutly
passionate soul. But this deficiency on the part of
his lordship could scarcely be alleged against him as
a very heinous fault; it is far from usual to find a
British noble who on such a topic entertains the no-
tions and sentiments of Lord Montacute; almost as
rare to find a British peeress who could respond to
them with the same fervour and facility as the beau-

198 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

tiful Lady Bertie and Bellair. The life of a British
peer is mainly regulated by Arabian laws and Syrian
customs at this moment; but, while he sabbatically
abstains from the debate or the rubber, or regulates
the quarterly performance of his judicial duties in his
province by the advent of the sacred festivals, he
thinks little of the land and the race who, under the
immediate superintendence of the Deity, have by their
sublime legislation established the principle of periodic
rest to man, or by their deeds and their dogmas,
commemorated by their holy anniversaries, have ele-
vated the condition and softened the lot of every na-
tion except their own.

'And how does Tancred get on?* asked Lord
Eskdale one morning of the Duchess of Bellamont,
with a dry smile. * 1 understand that, instead of
going to Jerusalem, he is going to give us a fish
dinner.'

The Duchess of Bellamont had made the acquaint-
ance of Lady Bertie and Bellair, and was delighted
with her, although her Grace had been told that Lord
Montacute called upon her every day. The proud,
intensely proper, and highly prejudiced Duchess of
Bellamont took the most charitable view of this sud-
den and fervent friendship. A female friend, who
talked about Jerusalem, but kept her son in London,
was in the present estimation of the duchess a real
treasure, the most interesting and admirable of her
sex. Their intimacy was satisfactorily accounted for
by the invaluable information which she imparted to
Tancred; what he was to see, do, eat, drink; how he
was to avoid being poisoned and assassinated, escape
fatal fevers, regularly attend the service of the Church
of England in countries where there were no churches,

TANCRED

199

and converse in languages of which he had no knowl-
edge. He could not have a better counsellor than
Lady Bertie, who had herself travelled, at least to the
Faubourg St. Honore, and, as Horace Walpole says,
after Calais nothing astonishes. Certainly Lady Bertie
had not been herself to Jerusalem, but she had read
about it, and every other place. The duchess was
dehghted that Tancred had a companion who inter-
ested him. With all the impulse of her sanguine
temperament, she had already accustomed herself to
look upon the long-dreaded yacht as a toy, and rather
an amusing one, and was daily more convinced of
the prescient shrewdness of her cousin. Lord Eskdale.

Tancred was going to give them a fish dinner! A
what ? A sort of banquet which might have served
for the marriage feast of Neptune and Amphitrite, and
be commemorated by a constellation; and which
ought to have been administered by the Nereids and
the Naiads; terrines of turtle, pools of water souchee,
flounders of every hue, and eels in every shape, cut-
lets of salmon, salmis of carp, ortolans represented by
whitebait, and huge roasts carved out of the sturgeon.
The appetite is distracted by the variety of objects,
and tantahsed by the restlessness of perpetual solici-
tation; not a moment of repose, no pause for enjoy-
ment; eventually, a feeling of satiety, without
satisfaction, and of repletion without sustenance; till,
at night, gradually recovering from the whirl of the
anomalous repast, famished yet incapable of flavour,
the tortured memory can only recall with an effort,
that it has dined off pink champagne and brown bread
and butter!

What a ceremony to be presided over by Tancred
of Montacute; who, if he deigned to dine at all, ought

15 B. D.— 26

200 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

to have dined at no less a round table than that of
King Arthur. What a consummation of a sublime
project! What a catastrophe of a spiritual career! A
Greenwich party and a tavern bill!

All the world now is philosophical, and therefore
they can account for this disaster. Without doubt
we are the creatures of circumstances; and, if circum-
stances take the shape of a charming woman, who
insists upon saihng in your yacht, which happens to
to be at Blackwall or Greenwich, it is not easy to
discover how the inevitable consequences can be
avoided. It would hardly do, off the Nore, to pre-
sent your mistress with a sea-pie, or abruptly re-
mind your farewell friends and sorrowing parents of
their impending loss by suddenly serving up soup
hermetically sealed, and roasting the embalmed joint,
which ought only to have smoked amid the ruins
of Thebes or by the cataracts of Nubia.

There are, however, two sides of every picture; a
party may be pleasant, and even a fish dinner not
merely a whirl of dishes and a clash of plates. The
guests may be not too numerous, and well assorted;
the attendance not too devoted, yet regardful; the
weather may be charming, which is a great thing,
and the giver of the dinner may be charmed, and that
is everything.

The party to see the Basilisk was not only the most
agreeable of the season, but the most agreeable ever
known. They all said so when they came back. Mr.
Vavasour, who was there, went to all his evening
parties; to the assembly by the wife of a minister in
Carlton Terrace; to a rout by the wife of the leader
of opposition in Whitehall; to a literary soiree in
Westminster, and a brace of balls in Portman and

TANCRED

20 1

Belgrave Squares; and told them all that they were
none of them to be compared to the party of the
morning, to which, it must be owned, he had greatly
contributed by his good humour and merry wit. Mrs.
Coningsby declared to every one that, if Lord Monta-
cute would take her, she was quite ready to go to
Jerusalem; such a perfect vessel was the Basilisk, and
such an admirable sailor was Mrs. Coningsby, which,
considering that the river was like a mill-pond, ac-
cording to Tancred's captain, or like a mirror, accord-
ing to Lady Bertie and Bellair, was not surprising.
The duke protested that he was quite glad that Mon-
tacute had taken to yachting, it seemed to agree
with him so well; and spoke of his son's future
movements as if there were no such place as Pales-
tine in the world. The sanguine duchess dreamed of
Cowes regattas, and resolved to agree to any arrange-
ment to meet her son's fancy, provided he would stay
at home, which she convinced herself he had now re-
solved to do.

'Our cousin is so wise,' she said to her husband,
as they were returning. ' What could the bishop mean
by saying that Tancred was a visionary ? I agree
with you, George, there is no counsellor like a man
of the world.'

*I wish M. de Sidonia had come,' said Lady Ber-
tie and Bellair, gazing from the window of the Trafal-
gar on the moonlit river with an expression of
abstraction, and speaking in a tone almost of mel-
ancholy.

M also wish it, since you do,' said Tancred. *But
they say he goes nowhere. It was almost pre-
sumptuous in me to ask him, yet I did so because you
wished it.'

202 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

M never shall know him,' said Lady Bertie and
Bellair, with some vexation.

*He interests you,' said Tancred, a little piqued.

*I had so many things to say to him,' said her
ladyship.

'Indeed!' said Tancred; and then he continued, 'I
offered him every inducement to come, for I told him
it was to meet you; but perhaps if he had known
that you had so many things to say to him, he might
have relented.'

'So many things! Oh! yes. You know he has
been a great traveller; he has been everywhere; he
has been at Jerusalem.'

/Fortunate man!' exclaimed Tancred, half to him-
self. ' Would I were there ! '

'Would we were there, you mean,' said Lady
Bertie, in a tone of exquisite melody, and looking at
Tancred with her rich, charged eyes.

His heart trembled; he was about to give utterance
to some wild words, but they died upon his lips.
Two great convictions shared his being: the absolute
necessity of at once commencing his pilgrimage, and
the persuasion that life, without the constant presence
of this sympathising companion, must be intolerable.
What was to be done.? In his long reveries, where
he had brooded over so many thoughts, some only
of which he had as yet expressed to mortal ear, Tan-
cred had calculated, as he believed, every combination
of obstacle which his projects might have to encoun-
ter; but one, it now seemed, he had entirely omitted,
the influence of woman. Why was he here? Why
was he not away ? Why had he not departed ? The
reflection was intolerable; it seemed to him even dis-
graceful. The being who would be content with

TANCRED

203

nothing less than communing with celestial powers
in sacred climes, standing at a tavern window gazing
on the moonlit mudbanks of the barbarous Thames,
a river which neither angel nor prophet had ever
visited! Before him, softened by the hour, was the
Isle of Dogs! The Isle of Dogs! It should at least
be Cyprus!

The carriages were announced; Lady Bertie and
Bellair placed her arm in his.

CHAPTER XXII.

The Crusader Receives a Shock.

ANCRED passed a night of great
disquiet. His mind was agitated,
his purposes indefinite; his confi-
dence in himself seemed to falter.
Where was that strong will that
had always sustained him ? that
faculty of instant decision which had given such
vigour to his imaginary deeds ? A shadowy haze had
suffused his heroic idol, duty, and he could not clearly
distinguish either its form or its proportions. Did he
wish to go to the Holy Land or not? What a ques-
tion ? Had it come to that ? Was it possible that he
could whisper such an enquiry, even to his midnight
soul? He did wish to go to the Holy Land; his
purpose was not in the least faltering; he most de-
cidedly wished to go to the Holy Land, but he wished
also to go thither in the company of Lady Bertie and
Bellair.

Tancred could not bring himself to desert the only
being perhaps in England, excepting himself, whose
heart was at Jerusalem; and that being a woman!
There seemed something about it unknightly, unkind
and cowardly, almost base. Lady Bertie was a heroine
worthy of ancient Christendom rather than of en-
(204)

TANCRED

lightened Europe. In the old days, truly the good old
days, when the magnetic power of Western Asia on
the Gothic races had been more puissant, her noble
yet delicate spirit might have been found beneath the
walls of Ascalon or by the purple waters of Tyre.
When Tancred first met her, she was dreaming of
Palestine amid her frequent sadness; he could not,
utterly void of all self-conceit as he was, be insensible
to the fact that his sympathy, founded on such a di-
vine congeniality, had often chased the cloud from
her brow and lightened the burthen of her drooping
spirit. If she were sad before, what would she be
now, deprived of the society of the only being to
whom she could unfold the spiritual mysteries of her
romantic soul ? Was such a character to be left alone
in this world of slang and scrip; of coarse motives
and coarser words ? Then, too, she was so intelligent
and so gentle; the only person who understood him,
and never grated for an instant on his high ideal.
Her temper also was the sweetest in the world, emi-
nent as her generous spirit. She spoke of others with
so much kindness, and never indulged in that spirit of
detraction or that love of personal gossip which Tancred
had frankly told her he abhorred. Somehow or other
it seemed that their tastes agreed on everything.

The agitated Tancred rose from the bed where the
hope of slumber was vain. The fire in his dressing-
room was nearly extinguished; wrapped in his cham-
ber robe, he threw himself into a chair, which he
drew near the expiring embers, and sighed.

Unhappy youth! For you commences that great
hallucination, which all must prove, but which fortu-
nately can never be repeated, and which, in mockery,
we call first love. The physical frame has its infantile

2o6 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

disorders; the cough which it must not escape, the
burning skin which it must encounter. The heart has
also its childish and cradle malady, which may be
fatal, but which, if once surmounted, enables the
patient to meet with becoming power all the real con-
vulsions and fevers of passion that are the heirloom
of our after-life. They, too, may bring destruction;
but, in their case, the cause and the effect are more
proportioned. The heroine is real, the sympathy is
wild but at least genuine, the catastrophe is that of a
ship at sea which sinks with a rich cargo in a noble
venture.

In our relations with the softer sex it cannot be
maintained that ignorance is bliss. On the contrary,
experience is the best security for enduring love. Love
at first sight is often a genial and genuine sentiment,
but first love at first sight is ever eventually branded
as spurious. Still more so is that first love which
suffuses less rapidly the spirit of the ecstatic votary,
when he finds that by degrees his feelings, as the
phrase runs, have become engaged. Fondness is so
new to him that he has repaid it with exaggerated
idolatry, and become intoxicated by the novel gratifi-
cation of his vanity. Little does he suspect that all
this time his seventh heaven is but the crapulence of
self-love. In these cases, it is not merely that every-
thing is exaggerated, but everything is factitious.
Simultaneously, the imaginary attributes of the idol
disappearing, and vanity being satiated, all ends in a
crash of iconoclastic surfeit.

The embers became black, the night air had cooled
the turbulent blood of Lord Montacute, he shivered,
returned to his couch, and found a deep and invigor-
ating repose.

TANCRED

207

The next morning, about two hours after noon,
Tancred called on Lady Bertie. As he drove up to
the door, there came forth from it the foreigner who
was her companion in the city fray when Tancred
first saw her and went to her rescue. He recognised
Lord Montacute, and bowed with much ceremony,
though with a certain grace and bearing. He was a
man whose wrinkled visage strangely contrasted with
his still gallant figure, scrupulously attired; a blue
frock-coat with a ribboned button-hole, a well-turned
boot, hat a little too hidalgoish, but quite new. There
was something respectable and substantial about him,
notwithstanding his moustaches, and a carriage a de-
gree too debonair for his years. He did not look like
a carbonaro or a refugee. Who could he he?

Tancred had asked himself this question before.
This was not the first time that he had encountered
this distinguished foreigner since their first meeting.
Tancred had seen him before this, quitting the door
of Lord Bertie and Bellair; had stumbled over him
before this, more than once, on the staircase; once,
to his surprise, had met him as he entered the per-
sonal saloon of Lady Bertie. As it was evident, on
that occasion, that his visit had been to the lady, it
was thought necessary to say something, and he had
been called the Baron, and described, though in a
somewhat flurried and excited manner, as a particu-
lar friend, a person in whom they had the most
entire confidence, who had been most kind to them
at Paris, putting them in the way of buying the
rarest china for nothing, and who was now over
here on some private business of his own, of great
importance. The Bertie and Bellairs felt immense in-
terest in his exertions, and wished him every sue-

2o8 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

cess; Lord Bertie particularly. It was not at all
surprising, considering the innumerable kindnesses
they had experienced at his hands, was it?

'Nothing more natural,' replied Tancred; and he
turned the conversation.

Lady Bertie was much depressed this morning, so
much so that it was impossible for Tancred not to
notice her unequal demeanour. Her hand trembled
as he touched it; her face, flushed when he entered,
became deadly pale.

*You are not well,' he said. '1 fear the open
carriage last night has made you already repent our
expedition.'

She shook her head. It was not the open car-
riage, which was delightful, nor the expedition, which
was enchanting, that had affected her. Would that
life consisted only of such incidents, of barouches
and whitebait banquets! Alas! no, it was not these.
But she was nervous, her slumbers had been dis-
quieted, she had encountered alarming dreams; she
had a profound conviction that something terrible was
impending over her. And Tancred took her hand, to
prevent, if possible, what appeared to be inevitable
hysterics. But Lady Bertie and Bellair was a strong-
minded woman, and she commanded herself.

'I can bear anything,' said Tancred, in a trembling
voice, 'but to see you unhappy.' And he drew his
chair nearer to hers.

Her face was hid, her beautiful face in her beau-
tiful hand. There was silence and then a sigh.

'Dear lady,' said Lord Montacute.

'What is it?' murmured Lady Bertie and Bellair.

'Why do you sigh ?'

'Because I am miserable.'

TANCRED

209

*No, no, no, don't use such words,' said the dis-
tracted Tancred. 'You must not be miserable; you
shall not be.'

'Can I help it? Are we not about to part?'

*We need not part,' he said, in a low voice.

'Then you will remain?' she said, looking up,
and her dark brown eyes were fixed with all their
fascination on the tortured Tancred.

'Till we all go,' he said, in a soothing voice.

'That can never be,' said Lady Bertie; 'Augustus
will never hear of it; he never could be absent more
than six weeks from London, he misses his clubs
so. If Jerusalem were only a place one could get at,
something might be done; if there were a railroad to
it for example.'

'A railroad!' exclaimed Tancred, with a look of
horror. 'A railroad to Jerusalem!'

'No, I suppose there never can be one,' continued
Lady Bertie, in a musing tone. 'There is no traffic.
And I am the victim,' she added, in a thrilling voice;
' 1 am left here among people who do not compre-
hend me, and among circumstances with which I
can have no sympathy. But go. Lord Montacute, go,
and be happy, alone. I ought to have been prepared
for all this; you have not deceived me. You told
me from the first you were a pilgrim, but I indulged
in a dream. I believe that I should not only visit
Palestine, but even visit it with you.' And she
leant back in her chair and covered her face with
her hands.

Tancred rose from his seat, and paced the cham-
ber. His heart seemed to burst.

'What is all this?' he thought. 'How came all
this to occur? How has arisen this singular combi-

2IO BENJAMIN DISRAELI

nation of unforeseen causes and undreamed-of circum-
stances, which baffles all my plans and resolutions, and
seems, as it were, without my sanction and my agency,
to be taking possession of my destiny and life? I am
bewildered, confounded, incapable of thought or deed.'

His tumultuous reverie was broken by the sobs of
Lady Bertie.

'By heaven, I cannot endure this!' said Tancred,
advancing. * Death seems to me preferable to her un-
happiness. Dearest of women!'

'Do not call me that,' she murmured. M can bear
anything from your lips but words of fondness. And
pardon all this; I am not myself to-day. I had thought
that I had steeled myself to all, to our inevitable
separation; but I have mistaken myself, at least mis-
calculated my strength. It is weak; it is very weak
and very foolish, but you must pardon it. 1 am too
much interested in your career to wish you to delay
your departure a moment for my sake. 1 can bear
our separation, at least 1 think 1 can. I shall quit
the world, for ever. I should have done so had we
not met. I was on the point of doing so when we
did meet, when, when my dream was at length
realised. Go, go; do not stay. Bless you, and
write to me, if I be alive to receive your letters.'

'I cannot leave her,' thought the harrowed Tan-
cred. 'It never shall be said of me that I could
bhght a woman's life, or break her heart.' But, just
as he was advancing, the door opened, and a servant
brought in a note, and, without looking at Tancred,
who had turned to the window, disappeared. The
desolation and despair which had been impressed on
the countenance of Lady Bertie and Bellair vanished
in an instant, as she recognised the handwriting of

TANCRED

211

her correspondent. They were succeeded by an ex-
pression of singular excitement. She tore open the
note; a stupor seemed to spread over her features,
and, giving a faint shriek, she fell into a swoon.

Tancred rushed to her side; she was quite insen-
sible, and pale as alabaster. The note, which was
only two hnes, was open and extended in her hands.
It was from no idle curiosity, but it was impossible
for Tancred not to read it. He had one of those eagle
visions that nothing could escape, and, himself ex-
tremely alarmed, it was the first object at which he
unconsciously glanced in his agitation to discover the
cause and the remedy for this crisis. The note ran
thus:

' ^ o'clock.

' The Narrow Gauge has won. We are utterly
done; and Snicks tells me you bought Jive hundred
more yesterday, at ten. Is It possible ?

' F.'

Ms it possible?' echoed Tancred, as, entrusting
Lady Bertie to her maid, he rapidly descended the
staircase of her mansion. He almost ran to Davies
Street, where he jumped into a cab, not permitting
the driver to descend to let him in.

* Where to ' asked the driver.

'The city.'

'What part?'

'Never mind; near the Bank.'

Alighting from the cab, Tancred hurried to Sequin
Court and sent in his card to Sidonia, who in a few
moments received him. As he entered the great fi-
nancier's room, there came out of it the man called
in Brook Street the Baron.

'Well, how did your dinner go off?' said Sidonia.

212 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

looking with some surprise at the disturbed counte-
nance of Tancred.

*It seems very ridiculous, very impertinent I fear
you will think it/ said Tancred, in a hesitating con-
fused manner, *but that person, that person who has
just left the room; I have a particular reason, I have
the greatest desire, to know who that person is.'

'That is a French capitalist,' replied Sidonia, with
a slight smile, *an eminent French capitalist, the
Baron Villebecque de Chateau Neuf. He wants me
to support him in a great railroad enterprise in his
country: a new Hne to Strasbourg, and looks to a
great traffic, I suppose, in pasties. But this cannot
much interest you. What do you want really to
know about him ? 1 can tell you everything. I have
been acquainted with him for years. He was the in-
tendant of Lord Monmouth, who left him thirty thou-
sand pounds, and he set up upon this at Paris as a
millionaire. He is in the way of becoming one, has
bought lands, is a deputy and a baron. He is rather
a favourite of mine,' added Sidonia, 'and I have been
able, perhaps, to assist him, for I knew him long be-
fore Lord Monmouth did, in a very different position
from that which he now fills, though not one for
which I have less respect. He was a fine comic
actor in the courtly parts, and the most celebrated
manager in Europe; always a fearful speculator, but
he is an honest fellow, and has a good heart.'

'He is a great friend of Lady Bertie and Bellair,'
said Tancred, rather hesitatingly.

'Naturally,' said Sidonia.

'She also,' said Tancred, with a becalmed counte-
nance, but a palpitating heart, 'is, I believe, much
interested in railroads?'

TANCRED

213

* She is the most inveterate female gambler in Eu-
rope,' said Sidonia, 'whatever shape her speculations
take. Villebecque is a great ally of hers. He always
had a weakness for the English aristocracy, and re-
members that he owed his fortune to one of them.
Lady Bertie was in great tribulation this year at Paris:
that was the reason she did not come over before
Easter; and Villebecque extricated her from a scrape.
He would assist her now if he could. By-the-bye,
the day that I had the pleasure of making your ac-
quaintance, she was here with Villebecque, an hour
at my door, but I could not see her; she pesters me,
too, with her letters. But I do not like feminine
finance. I hope the worthy baron will be discreet in
his aUiance with her, for her affairs, which I know,
as I am obliged to know every one's, happen to be
at this moment most critical.'

'I am trespassing on you,' said Tancred, after a
painful pause, 'but I am about to set sail.'

'When?'

'To-morrow; to-day, if I could; and you were so
kind as to promise me '

'A letter of introduction and a letter of credit. I
have not forgotten, and I will write them for you at
once.' And Sidonia took up his pen and wrote:

A Letter of Introduction.

To Alonio Lara, Spanish Prior, at the Convent of
Terra Santa at Jerusalem.

'Most holy Father: The youth who will deliver
to you this is a pilgrim who aspires to penetrate the
great Asian mystery. Be to him ^yhat you were to

214 BENJAMIN DISRAELI

me; and may the God of Sinai, in whom we all be-
lieve, guard over you, and prosper his enterprise!

'SiDONIA.

'London, May, 1845.*

'You can read Spanish,' said Sidonia, giving him
the letter. 'The other I shall write in Hebrew, which
you will soon read.'

A Letter of Credit.

To Adam Besso at Jerusalem.

'London, May, 1845.
'My good Adam: If the youth who bears this re-
quire advances, let him have as much gold as would
make the right-hand lion on the first step of the
throne of Solomon the king; and if he want more, let
him have as much as would form the lion that is on
the left; and so on, through every stair of the royal
seat. For all which will be responsible to you the
child of Israel, who among the Gentiles is called

* SlDONlA.'